I 


SONGS    OF    THE    SIERRAS. 


SONGS  OF  THE  SIERRAS. 


BY 


JOAQUIN    MILLER. 


tJFI7BRSITr 


BO  i 

ROBERTS     BROTHERS. 
1871. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1871,  by 

c.  ii.  MILLER, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress  at  Washington. 


CAMBRIDGE: 
VUKSS  OF  JOHN  WILSON  AND  SOJJ. 


TO    MAUD. 


CONTENTS. 


ARIZONIAN 1 

WITH  WALKER  IN  NICARAGUA 23 

CALIFORNIAN 65 

THE  LAST  TASCHASTAS 107 

INA 129 

THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL  ALCALDE 195 

KIT  CARSON'S  KIDE 243 

BURNS  AND  BYRON 255 

MYRRH 267 

EVEN  So.  277 


ARIZONIAN. 


Because  the  skies  were  blue,  because 

The  sun  in  fringes  of  the  sea 

Was  tangled,  and  delightfully 

Kept  dancing  on  as  in  a  waltz, 

And  tropic  trees  boiv'd  to  the  seas, 

And  bloom'd  and  bore,  years  through  and  through, 

And  birds  in  blended  gold  and  blue 

Were  thick  and  sweet  as  swarming  bees, 

And  sang  as  if  in  paradise, 

And  all  that  paradise  was  spring  — 

Did  I  too  sing  with  lifted  eyes, 

Because  I  could  not  choose  but  sing. 

With  garments  full  of  sea-winds  blown 
From  isles  beyond  of  spice  and  balm, 
Beside  the  sea,  beneath  her  palm, 
She  waits  as  true  as  chisell'd  stone. 
My  childhood's  child  !  my  June  in  May  ! 
So  wiser  than  thy  father  is, 
These  lines,  these  leaves,  and  all  of  this 
Are  thine,  —  a  loose,  uncouth  bouquet. 
So  wait  and  ivatch  for  sail  and  sign ; 
A  ship  shall  mount  the  hollow  seas, 
Blown  to  thy  place  of  blossom' d  trees, 
And  birds,  and  song,  and  summer-shine. 

I  throw  a  kiss  across  the  sea, 

I  drink  the  winds  as  drinking  wine, 

And  dream  they  all  are  blown  from  thee : 

I  catch  the  whisper' d  kiss  of  thine. 

Shall  I  return  with  lifted  face, 

Or  head  held  down  as  in  disgrace, 

To  hold  thy  two  brown  hands  in  mine  f 


ENGLAND,  1871. 


SONGS   OF   THE   SIERRAS. 


ARJZONIAN. 


"  A  -^^  *  kaye  sa^»  an^  ^  say  i*  eyer> 

As  the  years  go  on  and  the  world  goes  over, 
'Twere  better  to  be  content  and  clever 
In  tending  of  cattle  and  tossing  of  clover, 
In  the  grazing  of  cattle  and  the  growing  of  grain, 
Than  a  strong  man  striving  for  fame  or  gain  ; 
Be  even  as  kine  in  the  red-tipp'd  clover  ; 
For  they  lie  down  and  their  rests  are  rests, 
And  the  days  are  theirs,  come  sun  come  rain, 
To  lie,  rise  up,  and  repose  again  ; 
While  we  wish,  yearn,  and  do  pray  in  vain, 
And  hope  to  ride  on  the  billows  of  bosoms, 
And  hope  to  rest  in  the  haven  of  breasts, 
Till  the  heart  is  sicken'd  and  the  fair  hope  dead  ; 
Be  even  as  clover  with  its  crown  of  blossoms, 
Even  as  blossoms  ere  the  bloom  is  shed, 


4  ARIZONIAN. 

Kiss'd  by  kine  and  the  brown  sweet  bee  — 
For  these  have  the  sun,  and  moon,  and  air, 
And  never  a  bit  of  the  burthen  of  care ; 
And  with  all  of  our  caring  what  more  have  we  ? 
I  would  court  content  like  a  lover  lonely, 
I  would  woo  her,  win  her,  and  wear  her  only, 
And  never  go  over  this  white  sea  wall 
For  gold  or  glory  or  for  aught  at  all." 

X 

He  said  these  things  as  he  stood  with  the  Squire 
By  the  river's  rim  in  the  fields  of  clover, 
While  the  stream  flow'd  under  and  the  clouds  flew  over, 
With  the  sun  tangled  in  and  the  fringes  afire. 
So  the  Squire  lean'd  with  a  kind  desire 
To  humor  his  guest,  and  to  hear  his  story ; 
For  his  guest  had  gold,  and  he  yet  was  clever. 
And  mild  of  manner ;  and,  what  was  more,  he, 
In  the  morning's  ramble,  had  praised  the  kine, 
The  clover's  reach  and  the  meadows  fine, 
And  so  made  the  Squire  his  friend  for  ever. 

His  brow  was  brown'd  by  the  sun  and  weather, 
And  touch'd  by  the  terrible  hand  of  time ; 
His  rich  black  beard  had  a  fringe  of  rime, 


ARIZONIAN. 

As  silk  and  silver  inwove  together. 

There  were  hoops  of  gold  all  over  his  hands, 

And  across  his  breast,  in  chains  and  bands, 

Broad  and  massive  as  belts  of  leather. 

And  the  belts  of  gold  were  bright  in  the  sun, 

But  brighter  than  gold  his  black  eyes  shone 

From  their  sad  face-setting  so  swarth  and  dun, 

Brighter  than  beautiful  Santan  stone, 

Brighter  even  than  balls  of  fire,     . 

As  he  said,  hot-faced,  in  the  face  of  the  Squire :  — 

"  The  pines  bow'd  over,  the  stream  bent  under 
The  cabin  cover'd  with  thatches  of  palm, 
Down  in  a  canon  so  deep,  the  wonder 
Was  what  it  could  know  in  its  clime  but  calm. 
Down  in  a  canon  so  cleft  asunder 
By  sabre-stroke  in  the  young  world's  prime, 
It  look'd  as  broken  by  bolts  of  thunder, 
And  bursted  asunder  and  rent  and  riven 
By  earthquakes,  driven,  the  turbulent  time 
A  red  cross  lifted  red  hands  to  heaven. 
And  this  in  the  land  where  the  sun  goes  down, 
And  gold  is  gather'd  by  tide  and  by  stream, 
And  maidens  are  brown  as  the  cocoa  brown, 


6  ARIZONIAN. 

And  a  life  is  a  love  and  a  love  is  a  dream  ; 
Where  the  winds  come  in  from  the  far  Cathay 
With  odor  of  spices  and  balm  and  bay, 
And  summer  abideth  for  aye  and  aye, 
Nor  comes  in  a  tour  with  the  stately  June, 
And  comes  too  late  and  returns  too  soon 
To  the  land  of  the  sun  and  of  summer's  noon. 

"  She  stood  in  the  shadows  as  the  sun  went  down, 
Fretting  her  curls  with  her  fingers  brown, 
As  tall  as  the  silk-tipp'd  tassel'd  corn  — 
Stood  strangely  watching  as  I  weigh'd  the  gold 
We  had  wash'd  that  day  where  the  river  roll'd ; 
And  her  proud  lip  curl'd  with  a  sun-clime  scorn, 
As  she  ask'd,  « Is  she  better  or  fairer  than  I  ?  — 
She,  that  blonde  in  the  land  beyond, 
Where  the  sun  is  hid  and  the  seas  are  high  — 
That  you  gather  in  gold  as  the  years  go  on, 
And  hoard  and  hide  it  away  for  her 
As  a  squirrel  burrows  the  black  pine-burr  ? ' 

"  Now  the  gold  weigh'd  well,  but  was  lighter  of  weight 
Than  we  two  had  taken  for  days  of  late, 
So  I  was  fretted,  and,  brow  a-frown, 


ARIZONIAN.  7 

I  said,  '  She  is  fairer,  and  I  loved  her  first, 
And  shall  love  her  last  conie  the  worst  to  worst.' 
Now  her  eyes  were  black  and  her  skin  was  brown, 
But  her  lips  grew  livid  and  her  eyes  afire 
As  I  said  tliis  thing :  and  higher  and  higher 
The  hot  words  ran,  when  the  booming  thunder 
Peal'd  in  the  crags  and  the  pine-tops  under, 
While  up  by  the  cliff  in  the  murky  skies 
It  look'd  as  the  clouds  had  caught  the  fire  — 
The  flash  and  fire  of  her  wonderful  eyes. 

"  She  turn'd  from  the  door  and  down  to  the  river, 
And  mirror'd  her  face  in  the  whimsical  tide  ; 
Then  threw  back  her  hair,  as  if  throwing  a  quiver, 
As  an  Indian  throws  it  back  far  from  his  side 
And  free  from  his  hands,  swinging  fast  to  the  shoulder 
When  rushing  to  battle  ;  and,  rising,  she  sigh'd 
And  shook,  and  shiver'd  as  aspens  shiver. 
Then  a  great  green  snake  slid  into  the  river, 
Glistening,  green,  and  with  eyes  of  fire ; 
Quick,  double-handed  she  seized  a  boulder, 
And  cast  it  with  all  the  fury  of  passion, 
As  with  lifted  head  it  went  curving  across, 
Swift  darting  its  tongue  like  a  fierce  desire, 


8  ARIZONIAA. 

Curving  and  curving,  lifting  higher  and  higher, 

Bent  and  beautiful  as  a  river  moss ; 

Then,  smitten,  it  turn'd,  bent,  broken  and  doubled, 

And  lick'd,  red-tongued,  like  a  forked  fire, 

And  sank,  and  the  troubled  waters  bubbled, 

And  then  swept  on  in  their  old  swift  fashion. 

"  I  lay  in  my  hammock :  the  air  was  heavy 
And  hot  and  threat'ning ;  the  very  heaven 
Was  holding  its  breath ;  and  bees  in  a  bevy 
Hid  under  my  thatch ;  and  birds  were  driven 
In  clouds  to  the  rocks  in  a  hurried  whirr 
As  I  peer'd  down  by  the  path  for  her. 
She  stood  like  a  bronze  bent  over  the  river, 
The  proud  eyes  fix'd,  the  passion  unspoken  — 
When  the  heavens  broke  like  a  great  dyke  broken. 
Then,  ere  I  fairly  had  time  to  give  her 
A  shout  of  warning,  a  rushing  of  wind 
And  the  rolling  of  clouds  and  a  deafening  din 
And  a  darkness  that  had  been  black  to  the  blind 
Came  down,  as  I  shouted, '  Come  in !  come  in  ! 
Come  under  the  roof,  come  up  from  the  river, 
As  up  from  a  grave  —  come  now,  or  come  never ! ' 
The  tassel'd  tops  of  the  pines  were  as  weeds, 


ARIZONIAN.  9 

The  red- woods  rock'd  like  to  lake-side  reeds, 

And  the  world  seem'd  darken'd  and  drown' d  for  ever. 

"  One  time  in  the  night  as  the  black  wind  shifted, 
And  a  flash  of  lightning  stretch'd  over  the  stream, 
I  seem'd  to  see  her  with  her  brown  hands  lifted  — 
Only  seem'd  to  see,  as  one  sees  in  a  dream  — 
With  her  eyes  wide  wild  and  her  pale  lips  press' d, 
And  the  blood  from  her  brow  and  the  flood  to  her 

breast ; 

When  the  flood  caught  her  hair  as  the  flax  in  a  wheel, 
And  wheeling  and  whirling  her  round  like  a  reel, 
Laugh'd  loud  her  despair,  then  leapt  long  like  a  steed, 
Holding  tight  to  her  hair,  folding  fast  to  her  heel, 
Laughing  fierce,  leaping  far  as  if  spurr'd  to  its  speed  .  . 
Now  mind,  I  tell  you  all  this  did  but  seem  — 
Was  seen  as  you  see  fearful  scenes  in  a  dream ; 
For  what  the  devil  could  the  lightning  show 
In  a  night  like  that,  I  should  like  to  know ! 

"  And  then  I  slept,  and  sleeping  I  dream'd 
Of  great  green  serpents  with  tongues  of  fire, 
And  of  death  by  drowning,  and  of  after  death  — 
Of  the  day  of  judgment,  wherein  it  seem'd 


io  ARIZONIAN. 

That  she,  the  heathen,  was  bidden  higher, 
Higher  than  I ;  that  I  clung  to  her  side, 
And  clinging  struggled,  and  struggling  cried, 
And  crying,  waken'd,  all  weak  of  my  breath. 

"  Long  leaves  of  the  sun  lay  over  the  floor, 
And  a  chipmonk  chirp'd  in  the  open  door, 
But  above  on  his  crag  the  eagle  scream'd, 
Scream'd  as  he  never  had  scream'd  before. 
I  rush'd  to  the  river :  the  flood  had  gone 
Like  a  thief,  with  only  his  tracks  upon 
The  weeds  and  grasses  and  warm  wet  sand ; 
And  I  ran  after  with  reaching  hand, 
And  call'd  as  I  reach'd  and  reach'd  as  I  ran, 
And  ran  till  I  came  to  the  canon's  van, 
Where  the  waters  lay  in  a  bent  lagoon, 
Hook'd  and  crook'd  like  the  horned  moon. 

"  Here  in  the  surge  where  the  waters  met, 
And  the  warm  wave  lifted,  and  the  winds  did  fret 
The  wave  till  it  foam'd  with  rage  on  the  land, 
She  lay  with  the  wave  on  the  warm  white  sand ; 
Her  rich  hair  trail'd  with  the  trailing  weeds, 
And  her  small  brown  hands  lay  prone  or  lifted 


ARIZONIAN.  IT 

As  the  wave  sang  strophes  in  the  broken  reeds, 

Or  paused  in  pity,  and  in  silence  sifted 

Sands  of  gold,  as  upon  her  grave. 

And  as  sure  as  you  see  yon  browsing  kine, 

And  breathe  the  breath  of  your  meadows  fine, 

When  I  went  to  my  waist  in  the  warm  white  wave 

And  stood  all  pale  in  the  wave  to  my  breast, 

And  reach'd  for  her  in  her  rest  and  unrest, 

Her  hands  were  lifted  and  reach'd  to  mine. 

"Now  mind,  I  tell  you  I  cried,  c  Come  in ! 
Come  in  to  the  house,  come  out  from  the  hollow, 
Come  out  of  the  storm,  come  up  from  the  river ! ' 
Cried,  and  call'd,  in  that  desolate  din, 
Though  I  did  not  rush  out,  and  in  plain  words  give  her 
A  wordy  warning  of  the  flood  to  follow, 
Word  by  word,  and  letter  by  letter : 
But  she  knew  it  as  well  as  I,  and  better ; 
For  once  in  the  desert  of  iSTew  Mexico 
When  I  sought  frantically  far  and  wide 
For  the  famous  spot  where  Apaches  shot 
With  bullets  of  gold  their  buflalo, 
And  she  followed  faithfully  at  my  side, 
I  threw  me  down  in  the  hard  hot  sand 


12  ARIZONIAN. 

Utterly  famish'd,  and  ready  to  die, 
And  a  speck  arose  in  the  red-hot  sky  — 
A  speck  no  larger  than  a  lady's  hand  — 
While  she  at  my  side  bent  tenderly  over, 
Shielding  my  face  from  the  sun  as  a  cover, 
And  wetting  'my  face,  as  she  watch'd  by  my  side, 
From  a  skin  she  had  borne  till  the  high  noon-tide, 
(I  had  emptied  mine  in  the  heat  of  the  morning) 
When  the  thunder  mutter'd  far  over  the  plain 
vJLike  a  monster  bound  or  a  beast  in  pain, 
She  sprang  the  instant,  and  gave  the  warning, 
With  her  brown  hand  pointed  to  the  burning  skies. 
I  was  too  weak  unto  death  to  arise, 
And  I  pray'd  for  death  in  my  deep  despair, 
And  did  curse  and  clutch  in  the  sand  in  my  rage, 
And  bite  in  the  bitter  white  ashen  sage, 
That  covers  the  desert  like  a  coat  of  hair ; 
But  she  knew  the  peril,  and  her  iron  will, 
With  heart  as  true  as  the  great  North  Star, 
Did  bear  me  up  to  the  palm-tipp'd  hill, 
Where  the  fiercest  beasts  in  a  brotherhood, 
Beasts  that  had  fled  from  the  plain  and  far, 
In  perfectest  peace  expectant  stood, 
With  their  heads  held  high,  and  their  limbs  a-quiver , 


ARIZONIAN.  13 

And  ere  she  barely  had  time  to  breathe 

The  boiling  waters  began  to  seethe  . 

From  hill  to  hill  in  a  booming  river, 

Beating  and  breaking  from  hill  to  hill  — 

Even  while  yet  the  sun  shot  fire, 

Without  the  shield  of  a  cloud  above  — 

Filling  the  canon  as  you  would  fill 

A  wine-cup,  drinking  in  swift  desire, 

With  the  brim  new-kiss'd  by  the  lips  you  love. 

"  So  you  see  she  knew  —  knew  perfectly  well, 
As  well  as  I  could  shout  and  tell, 
The  mountains  would  send  a  flood  to  the  plain, 
Sweeping  the  gorge  like  a  hurricane, 
When  the  fire  flash'd,  and  the  thunder  fell. 
Therefore  it  is  wrong,  and  I  say  therefore 
(Jnfair,  that  a  mystical  brown  wing'd  moth 
Or  midnight  bat  should  for  evermore 
Fan  my  face  with  its  wings  of  air, 
And  follow  me  up,  down,  everywhere, 
Flit  past,  pursue  me,  or  fly  before, 
Dimly  limning  in  each  fair  place 
The  full  fix'd  eyes  and  the  sad  brown  face, 
So  forty  times  worse  than  if  it  were  wroth. 


H  ARIZONIAN. 

"I  gather'd  the  gold  I  had  hid  in  the  earth, 
Hid  over  the  door  and  hid  under  the  hearth : 
Hoarded  and  hid,  as  the  world  went  over, 
For  the  love  of  a  blonde  by  a  sun-brown'd  lover ; 
And  I  said  to  myself,  as  I  set  my  face 
To  the  East  and  afar  from  the  desolate  place, 
'  She  has  braided  her  tresses,  and  through  her  tears 
Look'd  away  to  the  West,  for  years,  the  years 
That  I  have  wrought  where  the  sun  tans  brown ; 
She  has  waked  by  night,  she  has  watch'd  by  day, 
She  has  wept  and  wonder'd  at  my  delay, 
Alone  and  in  tears,  with  her  head  held  down, 
Where  the  ships  sail  out  and  the  seas  swirl  in, 
Forgetting  to  knit  and  refusing  to  spin. 
She  shall  lift  her  head,  she  shall  see  her  lover, 
She  shall  hear  his  voice  like  a  sea  that  rushes, 
She  shall  hold  his  gold  in  her  hands  of  snow, 
And  down  on  his  breast  she  shall  hide  her  blushes, 
And  never  a  care  shall  her  true  heart  know, 
While  the  clods  are  below,  or  the  clouds  are  above  her..' 

"  On   the  fringe   of  the   night   she   stood  with   her 

pitcher 
At  the  old  town-pump  :  and  oh  !  passing  fair, 


ARIZ  ONI  AN.  if 

'  I  am  riper  now,'  I  said,  '  but  am  richer,' 

And  I  lifted  my  hand  to  my  beard  and  hair ; 

4 1  am  burnt  by  the  sun,  I  am  brown'd  by  the  sea ; 

I  am  white  of  my  beard,  and  am  bald,  may  be ; 

Yet  for  ail  such  things  what  can  her  heart  care  ? ' 

Then  she  moved ;  and  I  said,  '  How  marvellous  fair ! J 

She  look'd  to  the  West,  with  her  arm  arch'd  over ; 

'  Looking  for  me,  her  sun-brown' d  lover,' 

I  said  to  myself,  with  a  hot  heart-thump, 

And  stepp'd  me  nearer  to  the  storm-stain'd  pump, 

As  approaching  a  friend ;  for  'twas  here  of  old 

Our  troths  were  plighted  and  the  tale  was  told. 

"  How  young  she  was  and  how  fair  she  was ! 
How  tall  as  a  palm,  and  how  pearly  fair, 
As  the  night  came  down  on  her  glorious  hair ! 
Then  the  night  grew  deep  and  the  eye  grew  dim, 
And  a  sad-faced  figure  began  to  swim 
And  float  in  my  face,  flit  past,  then  pause, 
With  her  hands  held  up  and  her  head  held  down, 
Yet  face  to  face  ;  and  her  face  was  brown. 
Now  why  did  she  come  and  confront  me  there, 
With  the  mould  on  her  face  and  the  moist  in  her  hair, 
And  a  mystical  stare  in  her  marvellous  eyes  ? 

.    /^£      °*  THS^^ 

^ERSlryl 

7 


16  ARIZONIAN. 

I  had  call'd  to  her  twice,  '  Come  in !  come  in ! 

Come  out  of  the  storm  to  the  calm  within  ! ' 

Now,  that  is  the  reason  that  I  make  complain 

That  for  ever  and  ever  her  face  should  arise, 

Facing  face  to  face  with  her  great  sad  eyes. 

I  said  then  to  myself,  and  I  say  it  again, 

Gainsay  it  you,  gainsay  it  who  will, 

I  shall  say  it  over  and  over  still, 

And  will  say  it  ever,  for  I  know  it  true, 

That  I  did  all  that  a  man  could  do 

(Some  good  men's  doings  are  done  in  vain) 

To  save  that  passionate  child  of  the  sun, 

With  her  love  as  deep  as  the  doubled  main, 

And  as  strong  and  fierce  as  a  troubled  sea  — 

That  beautiful  bronze  with  its  soul  of  fire, 

Its  tropical  love  and  its  kingly  ire  — 

That  child  as  fix'd  as  a  pyramid, 

As  tall  as  a  tula  and  as  pure  as  a  nun  — 

And  all  there  is  of  it  the  all  I  did, 

As  often  happens,  was  done  in  vain. 

So  there  is  no  bit  of  her  blood  on  me. 

" '  She  is  marvellous  young  and  is  wonderful  fair, 
I  said  again,  and  my  heart  grew  bold, 


ARIZ  ONI  AN.  17 

And  beat  and  beat  a  charge  for  my  feet. 
4  Time  that  defaces  us,  places,  and  replaces  us, 
And  trenches  the  faces  as  in  furrows  for  tears, 
Has  traced  here  nothing  in  all  these  years. 
'Tis  the  hair  of  gold  that  I  vex'd  of  old, 
The  marvellous  flowing  flower  of  hair, 
And  the  peaceful  eyes  in  their  sweet  surprise 
That  I  have  Mss'd  till  the  head  swam  round, 
And  the  delicate  curve  of  the  dimpled  chin, 
And  the  pouting  lips  and  the  pearls  within 
Are  the  same,  the  same,  but  so  young,  so  fair ! ' 
My  heart  leapt  out  and  back  at  a  bound, 
As  a  child  that  starts,  then  stops,  then  lingers. 
'  How  wonderful  young ! '    I  lifted  my  fingers 
And  fell  to  counting  the  round  years  over 
That  I  had  dwelt  where  the  sun  goes  down. 
Four  full  hands,  and  a  finger  over ! 
'  She  does  not  know  me,  her  truant  lover,' 
I  said  to  myself,  for  her  brow  was  a-frown 
As  I  stepp'd  still  nearer,  with  rny  head  held  down, 
All  abash'd  and  in  blushes  my  brown  face  over ; 
*  She  does  not  know  me,  her  long-lost  lover, 
For  my  beard 's  so  long  and  my  skin 's  so  brown, 
That  I  well  might  pass  myself  for  another.' 

2 


1 8  ARIZ  ONI  AN. 

So  I  lifted  my  voice  and  I  spoke  aloud : 
4  Annette,  my  darling !  Annette  Macleod  ! ' 
She  started,  she  stopp'd,  she  turn'd,  amazed, 
She  stood  all  wonder  with  her  eyes  wild-wide, 
Then  turn'd  in  terror  down  the  dusk  wayside, 
And  cried  as  she  fled,  '  The  man  is  crazed, 
And  calls  the  maiden  name  of  my  mother  y 

"  From  a  scene  that  saddens,  from  a  ghost  that  wearies, 
From  a  white  isle  set  in  a  wall  of  seas, 
From  the  kine  and  clover  and  all  of  these 
I  shall  set  my  face  for  the  fierce  Sierras. 
I  shall  make  me  mates  on  the  stormy  border, 
I  shall  beard  the  grizzly,  shall  battle  again, 
And  from  mad  disorder  shall  mould  me  order 
And  a  wild  repose  for  a  weary  brain. 

"  Let  the  world  turn  over,  and  over,  and  over, 
And  toss  and  tumble  like  a  beast  in  pain, 
Crack,  quake,  and  tremble,  and  turn  full  over 
And  die,  and  never  rise  up  again ; 
Let  her  dash  her  peaks  through  the  purple  cover, 
Let  her  plash  her  seas  in  the  face  of  the  sun  — 
I  have  no  one  to  love  me  now,  not  one, 


ARIZONIAN.  19 

In  a  world  as  full  as  a  world  can  hold ; 
So  I  will  get  gold  as  I  erst  have  done, 
I  will  gather  a  coffin  top-full  of  gold, 
To  take  to  the  door  of  Death,  to  buy 
Content,  when  I  double  my  hands  and  die. 
There  is  nothing  that  is,  be  it  beast  or  human, 
Love  of  maiden  or  the  lust  of  man, 
Curse  of  man  or  the  kiss  of  woman, 
For  which  I  care  or  for  which  I  can 
Give  a  love  for  a  love  or  a  hate  for  a  hate, 
A  curse  for  a  curse  or  a  kiss  for  a  kiss, 
Since  life  has  neither  a  bane  nor  a  bliss, 
To  one  that  is  cheek  by  jowl  with  fate ; 
For  I  have  lifted  and  reach'd  far  over 
To  the  tree  of  promise,  and  have  pluck'd  of  all 
And  ate  —  ate  ashes,  and  myrrh,  and  gall. 
Go  down,  go  down  to  the  fields  of  clover, 
Down  with  the  kine  in  the  pastures  fine, 
And  give  no  thought,  or  care,  or  labor 
For  maid  or  man,  good  name  or  neighbor ; 
For  I  have  given,  and  what  have  I  ?  — 
Given  all  my  youth,  my  years,  and  labor, 
And  a  love  as  warm  as  the  world  is  cold, 
For  a  beautiful,  bright,  and  delusive  lie. 


20  ARIZONIAN. 

Gave  youth,  gave  years,  gave  love  ibr  gold, 
Giving  and  getting,  yet  what  have  I 
But  an  empty  palm  and  a  face  forgotten, 
And  a  hope  that's  dead,  and  a  heart  that's  rotten  ? 
Red  gold  on  the  waters  is  no  part  bread, 
But  sinks  dull-sodden  like  a  lump  of  lead, 
And  returns  no  more  in  the  face  of  Heaven. 
So  the  dark  day  thickens  at  the  hope  deferr'd, 
And  the  strong  heart  sickens  and  the  soul  is  stirr'd 
Like  a  weary  sea  when  his  hands  are  lifted, 
Imploring  peace,  with  his  raiment  drifted 
And  driven  afar  and  rent  and  riven. 

"  The  red  ripe  stars  hang  low  overhead, 
Let  the  good  and  the  light  of  soul  reach  up, 
Pluck  gold  as  plucking  a  butter-cup : 
But  I  am  as  lead  and  my  hands  are  red ; 
There  is  nothing  that  is  that  can  wake  one  passion 
In  soul  or  body,  or  one  sense  of  pleasure, 
No  fame  or  fortune  in  the  world's  wide  measure, 
Or  love  full-bosomed  or  in  any  fashion. 

"  The  doubled  sea,  and  the  troubled  heaven, 
Starr'd  and  barr'd  by  the  bolts  of  fire, 


ARIZONIAN.  21 

In  storms  where  stars  are  riven,  and  driven 

As  clouds  through  heaven,  as  a  dust  blown  higher ; 

The  angels  hurl'd  to  the  realms  infernal, 

Down  from  the  walls  in  unholy  wars,      r 

That  man  misnameth  the  falling  stars ; 

The  purple  robe  of  the  proud  Eternal, 

The  Tyrian  blue  with  its  fringe  of  gold, 

Shrouding  His  countenance,  fold  on  fold  — 

All  are  dull  and  tame  as  a  tale  that  is  told. 

For  the  loves  that  hasten  and  the  hates  that  linger, 

The  nights  that  darken  and  the  days  that  glisten, 

And  men  that  lie  and  maidens  that  listen, 

I  care  not  even  the  snap  of  my  finger. 

"So  the  sun  climbs  up,  and  on,  and  over, 
And  the  days  go  out  and  the  tides  come  in, 
And  the  pale  moon  rubs  on  the  purple  cover 
Till  wonras  thin  and  as  bright  as  tin ; 
But  the  ways  are  dark  and  the  days  are  dreary, 
And  the  dreams  of  youth  are  but  dust  in  age, 
And  the  heart  gets  harden'd,  and  the  hands  grow  weary 
Holding  them  up  for  their  heritage. 

"  And  the  strain'd  heart-strings  wear  bare  and  brittle, 


22  ARIZONIAN. 

And  the  fond  hope  dies  when  so  long  deferr'd ; 
Then  the  fair  hope  lies  in  the  heart  interr'd, 
So  stiff  and  cold  in  its  coffin  of  lead. 
For  you  promise  so  great  and  you  gain  so  little ; 
For  you  promise  so  great  of  glory  and  gold, 
And  gain  so  little  that  the  hands  grow  cold ; 
And  for  gold  and  glory  you  gain  instead 
A  fond  heart  sicken'd  and  a  fair  hope  dead*, 

"  So  I  have  said,  and  I  say  it  over, 
And  can  prove  it  over  and  over  again, 
That  the  four-footed  beasts  on  the  red-crown'd  clover, 
The  pied  and  horned  beasts  on  the  plain 
That  lie  down,  rise  up,  and  repose  again, 
And  do  never  take  care  or  toil  or  spin, 
Nor  buy,  nor  build,  nor  gather  in  gold, 
Though  the  days  go  out  and  the  tides  come  in, 
Are  better  than  we  by  a  thousand  fold ; 
For  what  is  it  all,  in  the  words  of  fire, 
But  a  vexing  of  soul  and  a  vain  desire  ?  " 


WITH  WALKER  IN  NICARAGUA. 


Come  to  my  sun  land  !  Come  with  me 
To  the  land  I  love ;  where  the  sun  and  sea 
Are  wed  forever :  where  palm  and  pine 
Are  filled  with  singers;  where  tree  and  vine 
Are  voiced  with  prophets !  0  come,  and  you 
Shall  sing  a  song  with  the  seas  that  swirl 
And  kiss  their  hands  to  the  cold  white  girlt 
To  the  maiden  moon  in  her  mantle  of  blue. 


WITH  WALKER  IN   NICARAGUA. 


T  TE  was  a  brick :  let  this  be  said 

Above  my  brave  dishonored  dead. 
I  ask  no  more,  this  is  not  much, 
Yet  I  disdain  a  colder  touch 
To  memory  as  dear  as  his ; 
For  he  was  true  as  any  star, 
And  brave  as  Yuba's  grizzlies  are, 
Yet  gentle  as  a  panther  is, 
Mouthing  her  young  in  her  first  fierce  kiss ; 
Tall,  courtly,  grand  as  any  king, 
Yet  simple  as  a  child  at  play, 
In  camp  and  court  the  same  alway, 
And  never  moved  at  any  thing ; 
A  dash  of  sadness  in  his  air, 
Born,  may  be,  of  his  over  care, 
And,  may  be,  born  of  a  despair 
In  early  love  —  I  never  knew ; 


26  WITH    WALKER 

I  question'd  not,  as  many  do, 

Of  things  as  sacred  as  this  is ; 

I  only  knew  that  he  to  me 

Was  all  a  father,  friend,  could  be  ; 

I  sought  to  know  no  more  than  this 

Of  history  of  him  or  his. 

A  piercing  eye,  a  princely  air, 
A  presence  like  a  chevalier, 
Half  angel  and  half  Lucifer ; 
Fair  fingers,  jewell'd  manifold 
With  great  gems  set  in  hoops  of  gold  ; 
Sombrero  black,  with  plume  of  snow 
That  swept  his  long  silk  locks  below  ; 
A  red  serape  with  bars  of  gold, 
Heedless  falling,  fold  on  fold ; 
A  sash  of  silk,  where  flashing  swung 
A  sword  as/  swift  as  serpent's  tongue, 
In  sheath  of  silver  chased  in  gold ; 
A  face  of  blended  pride  and  pain, 
Of  mingled  pleading  and  disdain, 
With  shades  of  glory  and  of  grief; 
And  Spanish  spurs  with  bells  of  steel 
That  dash'd  and  dangl'd  at  the  heel  — 


IN  NICARAGUA.  27 

The  famous  filibuster  chief 

Stood  by  his  tent  'mid  tall  brown  trees 

That  top  the  fierce  Cordilleras, 

With  brawn  arm  arch'd  above  his  brow ;  — 

Stood  still  —  he  stands,  a  picture,  now  — 

Long  gazing  down  the  sunset  seas. 

n. 

WHAT  strange  strong  bearded  men  were  these 
He  led  toward  the  tropic  seas ! 
Men  sometime  of  uncommon  birth, 
Men  rich  in  histories  untold, 
Who  boasted  not,  though  more  than  bold, 
Blown  from  the  four  parts  of  the  earth. 
Men  mighty-thew'd  as  Sampson  w.as, 
That  had  been  kings  in  any  cause, 
A  remnant  of  the  races  past ; 
Dark-brow'd  as  if  in  iron  cast, 
Broad-breasted  as  twin  gates  of  brass,  — 
Men  strangely  brave  and  fiercely  true, 
Who  dared  the  West  when  giants  were, 
Who  err'd,  yet  bravely  dared  to  err ; 
A  remnant  of  that  early  few 
Who  held  no  crime  or  curse  or  vice 


28  WITH  WALKER 

As  dark  as  that  of  cowardice ; 
With  blendings  of  the  worst  and  best 
Of  faults  and  virtues  that  have  blest 
Or  cursed  or  thrill'd  the  human  breast. 

They  rode,  a  troop  of  bearded  men, 
Rode  two  and  two  out  from  the  town, 
And  some  were  blonde  and  some  were  brown 
And  all  as  brave  as  Sioux ;  but  when 
From  San  Bennetto  south  the  line 
That  bound  them  in  the  laws  of  men 
Was  passed,  and  peace  stood  mute  behind 
And  streamed  a  banner  to  the  wind 
The  world  knew  not,  there  was  a  sign 
Of  awe,  of  silence,  rear  and  van. 
Men  thought  who  never  thought  before ; 
I  heard  the  clang  and  clash  of  steel 
From  sword  at  hand  or  spur  at  heel 
And  iron  feet,  but  nothing  more. 
Some  thought  of  Texas,  some  of  Maine, 
But  more  of  rugged  Tennessee,  — 
Of  scenes  in  Southern  vales  of  wine, 
And  scenes  in  Northern  hills  of  pine 
As  scenes  they  might  not  meet  again ; 


IN  NICARAGUA.  29 

And  one  of  Avon  thought,  and  one 
Thought  of  an  isle  beneath  the  sun, 
And  one  of  Rowley,  one  the  Rhine, 
And  one  turned  sadly  to  the  Spree. 

Defeat  meant  something  more  than  death  : 
The  world  was  ready,  keen  to  smite, 
As  stern  and  still  beneath  its  ban 
With  iron  will  and  bated  breath, 
Their  hands  against  their  fellow-man, 
They  rode  —  each  man  an  Ishmaelite. 
But  when  we  struck  the  hills  of  pine, 
These  men  dismounted,  doffed  their  cares, 
Talked  loud  and  laughed  old  love  affairs, 
And  on  the  grass  took  meat  and  wine, 
And  never  gave  a  thought  again 
To  land  or  life  that  lay  behind, 
Or  love,  or  care  of  any  kind 
Beyond  the  present  cross  or  pain. 

And  I,  a  waif  of  stormy  seas, 
A  child  among  such  men  as  these, 
Was  blown  along  this  savage  surf 
And  rested  with  them  on  the  turf, 


T 17  EH  SIT  71 


WITH  WALKER 

And  took  delight  below  the  trees. 
I  did  not  question,  did  not  care 
To  know  the  right  or  wrong.    I  saw 
That  savage  freedom  had  a  spell, 
And  loved  it  more  than  I  can  tell, 
And  snapped  my  fingers  at  the  law. 
I  bear  my  burden  of  the  shame,  — 
I  shun  it  not,  and  naught  forget, 
However  much  I  may  regret : 
I  claim  some  candor  to  my  name, 
And  courage  cannot  change  or  die.  — 
Did  they  deserve  to  die  ?  they  died. 
Let  justice  then  be  satisfied, 
And  as  for  me,  why  what  am  I  ? 


The  standing  side  by  side  till  death, 
The  dying  for  some  wounded  friend, 
The  faith  that  failed  not  to  the  end, 
The  strong  endurance  till  the  breath 
And  body  took  their  ways  apart, 
I  only  know.     I  keep  my  trust. 
Their  vices !  earth  has  them  by  heart. 
Their  virtues !  they  are  with  their  dust. 


IN  NICARAGUA.  31 

How  wound  we  through  the  solid  wood, 
With  all  its  broad  boughs  hung  in  green, 
With  lichen-mosses  trail' d  between ! 
How  waked  the  spotted  beasts  of  prey, 
Deep  sleeping  from  the  face  of  day, 
And  dash'd  them  like  a  troubled  flood 
Down  some  defile  and  denser  wood ! 

And  snakes,  long,  lithe  and  beautiful 
As  green  and  graceful-bough'd  bamboo, 
Did  twist  and  twine  them  through  and  through 
The  boughs  that  hung  red-fruited  full. 
One,  monster-sized,  above  me  hung, 
Close  eyed  me  with  his  bright  pink  eyes, 
Then  raised  his  folds,  and  sway'd  and  swung, 
And  lick'd  like  lightning  his  red  tongue, 
Then  oped  his  wide  mouth  with  surprise ; 
He  writhed  and  curved,  and  raised  and  lower'd 
His  folds  like  liftings  of  the  tide, 
And  sank  so  low  I  touched  his  side, 
As  I  rode  by,  with  nay  broad  sword. 

The  trees  shook  hands  high  overhead, 
And  bow'd  and  intertwined  across 


32  WITH  WALKER 

The  narrow  way,  while  leaves  and  moss 
And  luscious  fruit,  gold-hued  and  red, 
Through  all  the  canopy  of  green, 
Let  not  one  sunshaft  shoot  between. 

Birds  hung  and  swung,  green-robed  and  red, 
Or  droop'd  in  curved  lines  dreamily, 
Rainbows  reversed,  from  tree  to  tree, 
Or  sang  low-hanging  overhead  — 
Sang  low,  as  if  they  sang  and  slept, 
Sang  faint,  like  some  far  waterfall, 
And  took  no  note  of  us  at  all, 
Though  nuts  that  in  the  way  were  spread 
Did  crush  and  crackle  as  we  stept. 

Wild  lilies,  tall  as  maidens  are, 
As  sweet  of  breath,  as  pearly  fair, 
As  fair  as  faith,  as  pure  as  truth, 
Fell  thick  before  our  every  tread, 
As  in  a  sacrifice  to  ruth, 
And  all  the  air  with  perfume  fill'd 
More  sweet  than  ever  man  distill'd. 
The  ripen'd  fruit  a  fragrance  shed 
And  hung  in  hand-reach  overhead, 


fN  NICARAGUA.  33 

In  nest  of  blossoms  on  the  shoot, 
The  bending  shoot  that  bore  the  fruit. 

How  ran  the  monkeys  through  the  leaves ! 
How  rush'd  they  through,  brown  clad  and  blue, 
Like  shuttles  hurried  through  and  through 
The  threads  a  hasty  weaver  weaves ! 

How  quick  they  cast  us  fruits  of  gold, 
Then  loosen'd  hand  and  all  foothold, 
And  hung  limp,  limber,  as  if  dead, 
Hung  low  and  listless  overhead  ; 
And  all  the  time,  with  half-oped  eyes 
Bent  full  on  us  in  mute  surprise  — 
Look'd  wisely  too,  as  wise  hens  do 
That  watch  you  with  the  head  askew. 

The  long  days  through  from  blossoni'd  trees 
There  came  the  sweet  song  of  sweet  bees, 
With  chorus-tones  of  cockatoo 
That  slid  his  beak  along  the  bough, 
And  walk'd  and  talk'd  and  hung  and  swung, 
In  crown  of  gold  and  coat  of  blue, 
The  wisest  fool  that  ever  sung, 
Or  had  a  crown,  or  held  a  tongue. 
3 


34  WITH  WALKER 

Oh  when  we  broke  the  sombre  wood 
And  pierced  at  last  the  sunny  plain, 
How  wild  and  still  with  wonder  stood 
The  proud  mustangs  with  banner' d  mane, 
And  necks  that  never  knew  a  rein, 
And  nostrils  lifted  high,  and  blown, 
Fierce  breathing  as  a  hurricane : 
Yet  by  their  leader  held  the  while 
In  solid  column,  square,  and  file, 
And  ranks  more  martial  than  our  own ! 

Some  one  above  the  common  kind, 
Some  one  to  look  to,  lean  upon, 
I  think  is  much  a  woman's  mind ; 
But  it  was  mine,  and  I  had  drawn 
A  rein  beside  the  chief  while  we 
Rode  through  the  forest  leisurely ; 
When  he  grew  kind  and  questioned  me 
Of  kindred,  home,  and  home  affair, 
Of  how  I  came  to  wander  there, 
And  had  my  father  herds  and  land 
And  men  in  hundreds  at  command  ? 
At  which  I  silent  shook  my  head, 
Then,  timid,  met  his  eyes  and  said, 


IN  NICARAGUA.  35 

"  Not  so.     Where  sunny-foot  hills  run 
Down  to  the  North  Pacific  sea, 
And  Willamette  meets  the  sun 
In  many  angles,  patiently 
My  father  tends  his  flocks  of  snow, 
And  turns  alone  the  mellow  sod 
And  sows  some  fields  not  over  broad, 
And  mourns  my  long  delay  in  vain, 
Nor  bids  one  serve-man  come  or  go ; 
While  mother  from  her  wheel  or  churn, 
And  may  be  from  the  milking  shed, 
There  lifts  an  humble  weary  head 
To  watch  and  wish  for  my  return 
Across  the  camas'  blossom' d  plain." 

He  held  his  bent  head  very  low, 
A  sudden  sadness  in  his  air ; 
Then  turned  and  touched  my  yellow  hair 
And  took  the  long  locks  in  his  hand, 
Toyed  with  them,  smiled,  and  let  them  go, 
Then  thrummed  about  his  saddle  bow 
As  thought  ran  swift  across  his  face ; 
Then  turning  sudden  from  his  place, 
He  gave  some  short  and  quick  command. 


36  WITH  WALKER 

They  brought  the  best  steed  of  the  band, 
They  swung  a  bright  sword  at  my  side, 
He  bade  me  mount  and  by  him  ride, 
And  from  that  hour  to  the  end 
I  never  felt  the  need  of  friend. 


Far  in  the  wildest  quinine  wood 
We  found  a  city  old  —  so  old, 
Its  very  walls  were  turn'd  to  mould, 
And  stately  trees  upon  them  stood. 
No  history  has  mention'd  it, 
No  map  has  given  it  a  place ; 
The  last  dim  trace  of  tribe  and  race  — 
The  world's  forgetfulnesss  is  fit. 

It  held  one  structure  grand  and  moss'd, 
Mighty  as  any  castle  sung, 
And  old  when  oldest  Ind  was  young, 
With  threshold  Christian  never  cross'd  ; 
A  temple  builded  to  the  sun, 
Along  whose  sombre  altar-stone 
Brown  bleeding  virgins  had  been  strown 
Like  leaves,  when  leaves  are  crisp  and  dun, 


IN  NICARAGUA.  37 

In  ages  ere  the  Sphinx  was  born, 
Or  Babylon  had  birth  or  morn. 

My  chief  led  up  the  marble  step  — 
He  ever  led,  broad  blade  in  hand  — 
When  down  the  stones,  with  double  hand 
Clutch' d  to  his  blade,  a  savage  leapt, 
Hot  bent  to  barter  life  for  life. 
The  chieftain  drove  his  bowie  knife 
Full  through  his  thick  and  broad  breast-bone, 
And  broke  the  point  against  the  stone, 
The  dark  stone  of  the  temple  wall. 
I  saw  him  loose  his  hold  and  fall 
Full  length  with  head  hung  down  the  step ; 
I  saw  run  down  a  ruddy  flood 
Of  rushing  pulsing  human  blood. 
Then  from  the  crowd  a  woman  crept 
And  kiss'd  the  gory  hands  and  face, 
And  smote  herself.     Then  one  by  one 
The  dark  crowd  crept  and  did  the  same, 
Then  bore  the  dead  man  from  the  place. 
Down  darken'd  aisles  the  brown  priests  came, 
So  picture-like,  with  sandall'd  feet 
And  long  gray  dismal  grass-wove  gowns, 


38  WITH  WALKER 

So  like  the  pictures  of  old  time, 
And  stood  all  still  and  dark  of  frowns, 
At  blood  upon  the  stone  and  street. 
So  we  laid  ready  hand  to  sword 
And  boldly  spoke  some  bitter  word ; 
But  they  were  stubborn  still,  and  stood 
Dark  frowning  as  a  winter  wood, 
And  mutt'ring  something  of  the  crime 
Of  blood  upon  the  temple  stone, 
As  if  the  first  that  it  had  known. 

We  turned  toward  the  massive  door 
With  clash  of  steel  at  heel,  and  with 
Some  swords  all  red  and  ready  drawn. 
I  traced  the  sharp  edge  of  my  sword 
Along  the  marble  wall  and  floor 
For  crack  or  crevice  ;  theie  was  none. 
From  one  vast  mount  of  marble  stone 
The  mighty  temple  had  been  cored 
By  nut-brown  children  of  the  sun, 
When  stars  were  newly  bright  and  blithe 
Of  song  along  the  rim  of  dawn, 
A  mighty  marble  monolith  ! 


IN  NICARAGUA.  3P 

ni. 

***** 

THROUGH  marches  through  the  mazy  wood, 
And  may  be  through  too  much  of  blood, 
At  last  we  came  down  to  the  seas. 
A  city  stood,  white-wall'd,  and  brown 
With  age,  in  nest  of  orange  trees ; 
And  this  we  won,  and  many  a  town 
And  rancho  reaching  up  and  down, 
Then  rested  in  the  red-hot  days 
Beneath  the  blossom'd  orange  trees, 
Made  drowsy  with  the  drum  of  bees, 
And  drank  in  peace  the  south-sea  breeze, 
Made  sweet  with  sweeping  boughs  of  bays. 

Well !  there  were  maidens,  shy  at  first, 
And  then,  ere  long,  not  over  shy, 
Yet  pure  of  soul  and  proudly  chare. 
No  love  on  earth  has  such  an  eye ! 
JSTo  land  there  is  is  bless'd  or  curs'd 
With  such  a  limb  or  grace  of  face, 
Or  gracious  form,  or  genial  air ! 
In  all  the  bleak  North-land  not  one 
Hath  been  so  warm  of  soul  to  me 


40  WITH  WALKER 

As  coldest  soul  by  that  warm  sea, 
Beneath  the  bright  hot  centred  sun. 

No  lands  where  any  ices  are 
Approach,  or  ever  dare  compare 
With  warm  loves  born  beneath  the  sun. 
The  one  the  cold  white  steady  star, 
The  lifted  shifting  sun  the  one. 
I  grant  you  fond,  I  grant  you  fair, 
I  grant  you  honor,  trust  and  truth, 
And  years  as  beautiful  as  youth, 
And  many  years  beyond  the  sun, 
And  faith  as  fix'd  as  any  star ; 
But  all  the  North-land  hath  not  one 
So  warm  of  soul  as  sun-maids  are. 

I  was  but  in  my  boyhood  then, 
I  count  my  fingers  over,  so, 
And  find  it  years  and  years  ago, 
And  I  am  scarcely  yet  of  men. 
But  I  was  tall  and  lithe  and  fair, 
With  rippled  tide  of  yellow  hair, 
And  prone  to  mellowness  of  heart ; 
While  she  was  tawny-red  like  wine, 


IN  NICARAGUA.  41 

With  black  hair  boundless  as  the  night. 

As  for  the  rest  I  knew  my  part, 

At  least  was  apt,  and  willing  quite 

To  learn,  to  listen,  and  incline 

To  teacher  warm  and  wise  as  mine. 

O  bright,  bronzed  maidens  of  the  sun ! 
So  fairer  far  to  look  upon 
Than  curtains  of  the  Solomon, 
Or  Kedar's  tents,  or  any  one, 
Or  any  thing  beneath  the  sun ! 
What  follow' d  then  ?    What  has  been  done, 
And  said,  and  writ,  and  read,  and  sung  ? 
What  will  be  writ  and  read  again, 
While  love  is  life,  and  life  remain  ?  — 
While  maids  will  heed,  and  men  have  tongue  ? 

What  follow'd  then  ?    But  let  that  pass. 
I  hold  one  picture  in  my  heart, 
Hung  curtain' d,  and  not  any  part 
Of  all  its  dark  tint  ever  has 
Been  look'd  upon  by  any  one. 
But  if,  may  be,  one  brave  and  strong 
As  liftings  of  the  bristled  sea 


42  WITH  WALKER 

Steps  forth  from  out  the  days  to  be 
And  knocks  heart-wise,  and  enters  bold 
A  rugged  heart  inured  to  wrong  — 
As  one  would  storm  a  strong  stronghold  - 
Strong-footed,  and  most  passing  fair 
Of  truth,  and  thought  beyond  her  years, 
We  two  will  lift  the  crape  in  tears, 
Will  turn  the  canvas  to  the  sun, 
Will  trace  the  features  one  by  one 
Of  my  dear  dead,  in  still  despair. 

Love  well  who  will,  love  wise  who  can, 
But  love,  be  loved,  for  God  is  love  ; 
Love  pure,  like  cherubim  above  ; 
Love  maids,  and  hate  not  any  man. 
Sit  as  sat  we  by  orange  tree, 
Beneath  the  broad  bough  and  grape-vine 
Top-tangled  in  the  tropic  shine, 
Close  face  to  face,  close  to  the  sea, 
And  full  of  the  red-centred  sun, 
With  grand  sea-songs  upon  the  soul, 
Roll'd  melody  on  melody, 
Like  echoes  of  deep  organ's  roll, 
And  love,  nor  question  any  one. 


IN  NICARAGUA.  43 

If  God  is  love,  is  love  not  God  ? 
As  high  priests  say,  let  prophets  sing, 
Without  reproach  or  reckoning ; 
This  much  I  say,  knees  knit  to  sod, 
And  low  voice  lifted,  questioning. 

Let  eyes  be  not  dark  eyes,  but  dreams, 
Or  drifting  clouds  with  flashing  fires, 
Or  far  delights,  or  fierce  desires, 
Yet  not  be  more  than  well  beseems ; 
Let  hearts  be  pure  and  strong  and  true, 
Let  lips  be  luscious  and  blood-red, 
Let  earth  in  gold  be  garmented 
And  tented  in  her  tent  of  blue, 
Let  goodly  rivers  glide  between 
Their  leaning  willow  walls  of  green,    . 
Let  all  things  be  fill'd  of  the  sun, 
And  full  of  warm  winds  of  the  sea, 
And  I  beneath  my  vine  and  tree 
Take  rest,  nor  war  with  any  one  ; 
Then  I  will  thank  God  with  full  cause, 
Say  this  is  well,  is  as  it  was. 

Let  lips  be  red,  for  God  has  said 


44  WITH  WALKER 

Love  is  like  one  gold-garmented, 
And  made  them  so  for  such  a  time. 
Therefore  let  lips  be  red,  therefore 
Let  love  be  ripe  in  ruddy  prime, 
Let  hope  beat  high,  let  hearts  be  true, 
And  you  be  wise  thereat,  and  you 
Drink  deep,  and  ask  not  any  more. 

Let  red  lips  lift,  proud  curl'd,  to  kiss, 
And  round  limbs  lean  and  raise  and  reach 
In  love  too  passionate  for  speech, 
Too  full  of  blessedness  and  bliss 
For  any  thing  but  this  and  this ; 
Let  luscious  lips  lean  hot  to  kiss 
And  swoon  in  love,  while  all  the  air 
Is  redolent  with  balm  of  trees, 
And  mellow  with  the  song  of  bees, 
While  birds  sit  singing  everywhere  — 
And  you  will  have  not  any  more 
Than  I  in  boyhood,  by  that  shore 
Of  olives,  had  in  years  of  yore. 

Let  the  unclean  think  things  unclean ; 
I  swear  tip-toed,  with  lifted  hands, 


IN  NICARAGUA.  45 

That  we  were  pure  as  sea-washed  sands, 
That  not  one  coarse  thought  came  between ; 
Believe  or  disbelieve  who  will, 
Unto  the  pure  all  things  are  pure ; 
As  for  the  rest,  I  can  endure 
Alike  their  good  will  or  their  ill. 

She  boasted  Montezuma's  blood, 
Was  pure  of  soul  as  Tahoe's  flood, 
And  strangely  fair  and  princely  soul'd, 
And  she  was  rich  in  blood  and  gold  — 
More  rich  in  love  grown  over-bold 
From  its  own  consciousness  of  strength. 
How  warm !     Oh,  not  for  any  cause 
Could  I  declare  how  warm  she  was, 
In  her  brown  beauty  and  hair's  length. 
We  loved  in  the  sufficient  sun, 
We  lived  in  elements  of  fire, 
For  love  is  fire  and  fierce  desire ; 
Yet  lived  as  pure  as  priest  and  nun. 

We  lay  slow  rocking  in  the  bay 
In  birch  canoe  beneath  the  crags 
Thick,  topp'd  with  palm,  like  sweeping  flags 


46  WITH  WALKER 

Between  us  and  the  burning  day. 
The  red-eyed  crocodile  lay  low 
Or  lifted  from  his  rich  rank  fern, 
And  watch'd  us  and  the  tide  by  turn, 
And  we  slow  cradled  to  and  fro. 

And  slow  we  cradled  on  till  night. 
And  told  the  old  tale,  overtold, 
As  misers  in  recounting  gold 
Each  time  do  take  a  new  delight. 
With  her  pure  passion-given  grace 
She  drew  her  warm  self  close  to  me ; 
And,  her  two  brown  hands  on  my  knee, 
And  her  two  black  eyes  in  my  face, 
She  then  grew  sad  and  guess'd  at  ill, 
And  in  the  future  seem'd  to  see 
With  woman's  ken  of  prophecy ; 
Yet  proffer'd  her  devotion  still. 
And  plaintive  so,  she  gave  a  sign, 
A  token  cut  of  virgin  gold, 
That  all  her  tribe  should  ever  hold 
Its  wearer  as  some  one  divine, 
Nor  touch  him  with  a  hostile  hand, 
And  I  in  turn  gave  her  a  blade, 


IN  NICARAGUA.  47 

A  dagger,  worn  as  well  by  maid 

As  man,  in  that  half-lawless  land ; 

It  had  a  massive  silver  hilt, 

Had  a  most  keen  and  cunning  blade, 

A  gift  by  chief  and  comrades  made 

For  reckless  blood  at  Rivas  spilt. 

"  Show  this,"  said  I,  "  too  well  'tis  known, 

And  worth  an  hundred  lifted  spears, 

Should  ill  beset  your  sunny  years ; 

There  is  not  one  in  Walker's  band, 

But  at  the  sight  of  this  alone, 

Will  reach  a  brave  and  ready  hand, 

And  make  your  right  or  wrong  his  own." 


IV. 


LOVE  while  'tis  day ;  night  cometh  soon, 
Wherein  no  man  or  maiden  may ; 
Love  in  the  strong  young  prime  of  day  ; 
Drink  drunk  with  love  in  ripe  red  noon, 
Red  noon  of  love  and  life  and  sun ; 
Walk  in  love's  light  as  in  sunshine, 
Drink  in  that  sun  as  drinking  wine, 


48  WITH  WALKER 

Drink  swift,  nor  question  any  one ; 
For  loves  change  sure  as  man  or  moon, 
And  wane  like  warm  full  days  of  June. 

O  Love,  so  fair  of  promises, 
Bend  here  thy  brow,  blow  here  thy  kiss, 
Bend  here  thy  bow  above  the  storm 
But  once,  if  only  this  once  more. 
Comes  there  no  patient  Christ  to  save, 
Touch  and  re-animate  thy  form 
Long  three  days  dead  and  in  the  grave  ? 
Spread  here  thy  silken  net  of  jet; 
Since  man  is  false,  since  maids  forget, 
Since  man  must  fall  for  his  sharp  sin, 
Be  thou  the  pit  that  I  fall  in ; 
I  seek  no  safer  fall  than  this. 
Since  man  must  die  for  some  dark  sin, 
Blind  leading  blind,  let  come  to  this, 
And  my  death-crime  be  one  deep  kiss. 
Lo !  I  have  found  another  land, 
May  I  not  find  another  love, 
True,  trusting  as  a  bosom'd  dove, 
To  lay  its  whole  heart  in  my  hand  ? 
But  lips  that  leap  and  cling  and  crush, 


IN  NICARAGUA.  49 

And  limbs  that  twist  and  intertwine 

With  passion  as  a  passion-vine, 

And  veins  that  throb  and  swell  and  rush  — 

Be  ye  forbidden  fruit  and  wine. 

Such  passion  is  not  fair  or  fit 

Or  fashion'd  tall  —  touch  none  of  it. 

*  *  *  *  * 

*  *  *  *  * 

111  comes  disguised  in  many  forms  : 
Fair  winds  are  but  a  prophecy 
Of  foulest  winds  full  soon  to  be  — 
The  brighter  these,  the  blacker  they ; 
The  clearest  night  has  darkest  day, 
And  brightest  days  bring  blackest  storms. 
There  came  reverses  to  our  arms ; 
I  saw  the  signal-light's  alarms 
At  night  red-crescenting  the  bay. 
The  foe  pour'd  down  a  flood  next  day 
As  strong  as  tides  when  tides  are  high, 
And  drove  us  bleeding  in  the  sea, 
In  such  wild  haste  of  flight  that  we 
Had  hardly  time  to  arm  and  fly. 

Blown  from  the  shore,  borne  far  a-sea, 
4 


50  WITH  WALKER 

I  lifted  my  two  hands  on  high 
With  wild  soul  plashing  to  the  sky, 
And  cried,  "  O  more  than  crowns  to  me 
Farewell  at  last  to  love  and  thee ! " 
I  walk'd  the  deck,  I  kiss'd  my  hand 
Back  to  the  far  and  fading  shore, 
And  bent  a  knee  as  to  implore, 
Until  the  last  dark  head  of  land 
Slid  down  behind  the  dimpled  sea. 
At  last  I  sank  in  troubled  sleep, 
A  very  child,  rock'd  by  the  deep, 
Sad  questioning  the  fate  of  her 
Before  the  savage  conqueror. 

The  loss  of  comrades,  power,  place, 
A  city  wall'd,  cool  shaded  ways, 
Cost  me  no  care  at  all ;  somehow 
I  only  saw  her  sad  brown  face, 
And  —  I  was  younger  then  than  now. 

Red  flash'd  the  sun  across  the  deck, 
Slow  flapp'd  the  idle  sails,  and  slow 
The  black  ship  cradled  to  and  fro. 
Afar  my  city  lay,  a  speck 


IN  NICARAGUA. 

Of  white  against  a  line  of  blue ; 
Around,  half  lounging  on  the. deck, 
Some  comrades  chatted  two  by  two. 
I  held  a  new-fill' d  glass  of  wine, 
And  with  the  mate  talk'd  as  in  play 
Of  fierce  events  of  yesterday, 
To  coax  his  light  life  into  mine. 

He  jerk'd  the  wheel,  as  slow  he  said, 
Low  laughing  with  averted  head, 
And  so,  half  sad :  "  You  bet  they  '11  fight ; 
They  follow'd  in  canim,  canoe, 
A  perfect  fleet,  that  on  the  blue 
Lay  dancing  till  the  mid  of  night. 
Would  you  believe  !  one  little  cuss  — 
(He  turn'd  his  stout  head  slow  sidewise, 
And  'neath  his  hat-rim  took  the  skies)  — 
"In  petticoats  did  follow  us 
The  livelong  night,  and  at  the  dawn 
Her  boat  lay  rocking  in  the  lee, 
Scarce  one  short  pistol-shot  from  me." 
This  said  the  mate,  half  mournfully, 
Then  peck'd  at  us ;  for  he  had  drawn, 
By  bright  light  heart  and  homely  wit, 


52  WITH  WALKER 

A  knot  of  us  around  the  wheel, 
Which  he  stood  whirling  like  a  reel, 
For  the  still  ship  reck'd  not  of  it. 

"  And  where's  she  now?"  one  careless  said, 
With  eyes  slow  lifting  to  the  brine,  • 
Swift  swept  the  instant  far  by  mine  ; 
The  bronzed  mate  listed,  shook  his  head, 
Spirted  a  stream  of  amber  wide 
Across  and  over  the  ship  side, 
Jerk'd  at  the  wheel,  and  slow  replied  : 

"  She  had  a  dagger  in  her  hand, 
She  rose,  she  raised  it,  tried  to  stand, 
But  fell,  and  so  upset  herself; 
Yet  still  the  poor  brown  savage  elf, 
Each  time  the  long  light  wave  would  toss 
And  lift  her  form  from  out  the  sea, 
Would  shake  a  strange  bright  blade  at  me, 
With  rich  hilt  chased  a  cunning  cross. 
At  last  she  sank,  but  still  the  same 
She  shook  her  dagger  in  the  air, 
As  if  to  still  defy  and  dare, 
And  sinking  seem'd  to  call  your  name." 


IN  NICARAGUA.  53 

I  dash'd  my  wine  against  the  wall, 
I  rush'd  across  the  deck,  and  all 
The  sea  I  swept  and  swept  again, 
With  lifted  hand,  with  eye  and  glass, 
But  all  was  idle  and  in  vain. 
I  saw  a  red-bill'd  sea-gull  pass, 
A  petrel  sweeping  round  and  round, 
I  heard  the  far  white  sea-surf  sound, 
But  no  sign  could  I  hear  or  see 
Of  one  so  more  than  seas  to  me. 

I  cursed  the  ship,  the  shore,  the  sea, 
The  brave  brown  mate,  the  bearded  men  ; 
I  had  a  fever  then,  and  then 
Ship,  shore  and  sea  were  one  to  me ; 
And  weeks  we  on  the  dead  waves  lay, 
And  I  more  truly  dead  than  they. 
At  last  some  rested  on  an  isle ; 
The  few  strong-breasted  with  a  smile 
Returning  to  the  sunny  shore, 
Scarce  counting  of  the  pain  or  cost, 
Scarce  recking  if  they  won  or  lost ; 
They  sought  but  action,  ask'd  no  more ; 
They  counted  life  but  as  a  game, 


54  WITH  WALKER 

With  full  per  cent  against  them,  and 
Staked  all  upon  a  single  hand, 
And  lost  or  won,  content  the  same. 

I  never  saw  my  chief  again, 
I  never  sought  again  the  shore, 
Or  saw  my  white-wall'd  city  more. 
I  could  not  bear  the  more  than  pain 
At  sight  of  blossom'd  orange  trees 
Or  blended  song  of  birds  and  bees, 
The  sweeping  shadows  of  the  palm 
Or  spicy  breath  of  bay  and  balm. 
And,  striving  to  forget  the  while, 
I  wander'd  through  the  dreary  isle, 
Here  black  with  juniper,  and  there 
Made  white  with  goats  in  summer  coats, 
The  only  things  that  anywhere 
We  found  with  life  in  all  the  land, 
Save  birds  that  ran  long-bill'd  and  brown, 
Long-legg'd  and  still  as  shadows  are, 
Like  dancing  shadows,  up  and  down 
The  sea-rim  on  the  swelt'ring  sand. 

The  warm  sea  laid  his  dimpled  face, 


IN  NICARAGUA.  55 

With  every  white  hair  smoothed  in  place, 

As  if  asleep  against  the  land  ; 

Great  turtles  slept  upon  his  breast, 

As  thick  as  eggs  in  any  nest ; 

I  could  have  touched  them  with  my  hand. 


I  would  some  things  were  dead  and  hid, 
Well  dead  and  buried  deep  as  hell, 
With  recollection  dead  as  well, 
And  resurrection  God-forbid. 
They  irk  me  with  their  weary  spell 
Of  fascination,  eye  to  eye, 
And  hot  mesmeric  serpent  hiss, 
Through  all  the  dull  eternal  days. 
Let  them  turn  by,  go  on  their  ways, 
Let  them  depart  or  let  me  die ; 
For  life  is  but  a  beggar's  lie, 
And  as  for  death,  I  grin  at  it ; 
I  do  not  care  one  whiff  or  whit 
Whether  it  be  or  that  or  this. 

I  give  my  hand ;  the  world  is  wide ; 
Then  farewell  memories  of  yore, 


56  WITH  WALKER 

Between  us  let  strife  be  no  more  ; 

Turn  as  you  choose  to  either  side ; 

Say,  Fare-you-well,  shake  hands  and  say  — 

Speak  loud,  and  say  with  stately  grace, 

Hand  clutching  hand,  face  bent  to  face  — 

Farewell  for  ever  and  a  day. 

O  passion-toss'd  and  bleeding  past, 
Part  now,  part  well,  part  wide  apart, 
As  ever  ships  on  ocean  slid 
Down,  down  the  sea,  hull,  sail,  and  mast ; 
And  in  the  album  of  my  heart 
Let  hide  the  pictures  of  your  face, 
With  other  pictures  in  their  place, 
Slid  over  like  a  coffin's  lid. 


The  days  and  grass  grow  long  together ; 
They  now  fell  short  and  crisp  again, 
And  all  the  fair  face  of  the  main 
Grew  dark  and  wrinkled  at  the  weather. 
Through  all  the  summer  sun's  decline 
Fell  news  of  triumphs  and  defeats, 


IN  NICARAGUA.  57 

Of  hard  advances,  hot  retreats  — 
Then  days  and  days  and  not  a  line. 

At  last  one  night  they  came.    I  knew 
Ere  yet  the  boat  had  touch'd  the  land 
That  all  was  lost :  they  were  so  few 
I  near  could  count  them  on  one  hand ; 
But  he  the  leader  led  no  more. 
The  proud  chief  still  disdain' d  to  fly, 
But,  like  one  wreck'd,  clung  to  the  shore, 
And  struggled  on,  and  struggling  fell 
From  power  to  a  prison-cell, 
And  only  left  that  cell  to  die. 


My  recollection,  like  a  ghost, 
Goes  from  this  sea  to  that  sea-side, 
Goes  and  returns  as  turns  the  tide, 
Then  turns  again  unto  the  coast. 
I  know  not  which  I  mourn  the  most, 
My  brother  or  my  virgin  bride, 
My  chief  or  my  unwedded  wife. 
The  one  was  as  the  lordly  sun, 
To  joy  in,  bask  in,  and  admire  ; 


58  WITH  WALKER 

The  peaceful  moon  was  as  the  one, 
To  love,  to  look  to,  and  desire  ; 
And  both  a  part  of  my  young  life. 


Years  after,  shelter'd  from  the  sun 
Beneath  a  Sacramento  bay, 
A  black  Muchacho  by  me  lay 
Along  the  long  grass  crisp  and  dun, 
His  brown  mule  browsing  by  his  side, 
And  told  with  all  a  Peon's  pride 
How  he  once  fought,  how  long  and  well, 
Broad  breast  to  breast,  red  hand  to  hand, 
Against  a  foe  for  his  fair  land, 
And  how  the  fierce  invader  fell ; 
And  artless  told  me  how  he  died. 

To  die  with  hand  and  brow  unbound 
He  gave  his  gems  and  jewell'd  sword  ; 
Thus  at  the  last  the  warrior  found 
Some  freedom  for  his  steel's  reward. 
He  walk'd  out  from  the  prison-wall 
Dress'd  like  a  prince  for  a  parade, 
And  made  no  note  of  man  or  maid, 


IN  NICARAGUA.  59 

But  gazed  out  calmly  over  all ; 

Then  look'd  afar,  half  paused,  and  then    - 

Above  the  mottled  sea  of  men 

He  kiss'd  his  thin  hand  to  the  sun ; 

Then  smiled  so  proudly  none  had  known 

But  he  was  stepping  to  a  throne, 

Yet  took  no  note  of  any  one. 

A  nude  brown  beggar  Peon  child, 

Encouraged  as  the  captive  smiled, 

Look'd  up,  half  scared,  half  pitying ; 

He  stoop'd,  he  caught  it  from  the  sands, 

Put  bright  coins  in  its  two  brown  hands, 

Then  strode  on  like  another  king. 

Two  deep,  a  musket's  length,  they  stood, 
A-front,  in  sandals,  nude,  and  dun 
As  death  and  darkness  wove  in  one, 
Their  thick  lips  thirsting  for  his  blood. 
He  took  their  black  hands  one  by  one, 
And,  smiling  with  a  patient  grace, 
Forgave  them  all  and  took  his  place. 
He  bared  his  broad  brow  to  the  sun, 
Gave  one  long  last  look  to  the  sky, 
The  white-wing'd  clouds  that  hurried  by, 


60  WITH  WALKER 

The  olive  hills  in  orange  hue ; 

A  last  list  to  the  cockatoo 

That  hung  by  beak  from  cocoa-bough 

Hard  by,  and  hung  and  sung  as  though 

He  never  was  to  sing  again, 

Hung  all  red-crown'd  and  robed  in  green, 

With  belts  of  gold  and  blue  between.  — 

A  bow,  a  touch  of  heart,  a  pall 
Of  purple  smoke,  a  crash,  a  thud, 
A  warrior's  raiment  rent,  and  blood, 
A  face  in  dust  and  —  that  was  all. 

Success  had  made  him  more  than  king ; 
Defeat  made  him  the  vilest  thing 
In  name,  contempt  or  hate  can  bring : 
So  much  the  leaded  dice  of  war 
Do  make  or  rnar  of  character. 

Speak  ill  who  will  of  him,  he  died 
In  all  disgrace ;  say  of  the  dead 
His  heart  was  black,  his  hands  were  red  — 
Say  this  much,  and  be  satisfied ; 
Gloat  over  it  all  undenied. 


IN  NICARAGUA.  61 

I  only  say  that  tie  to  me, 

Whatever  he  to  others  was, 

Was  truer  far  than  any  one 

That  I  have  known  beneath  the  sun, 

Sinner,  saint,  or  Pharisee, 

As  boy  or  man,  for  any  cause ; 

I  simply  say  he  was  my  friend 

When  strong  of  hand  and  fair  of  fame : 

Dead  and  disgraced,  I  stand  the  same 

To  him,  and  so  shall  to  the  end. 

I  lay  this  crude  wreath  on  his  dust, 
Inwove  with  sad,  sweet  memories 
Recall'd  here  by  these  colder  seas. 
I  leave  the  wild  bird  with  his  trust, 
To  sing  and  say  him  nothing  wrong ; 
I  wake  no  rivalry  of  song. 

He  lies  low  in  the  levell'd  sand, 
Unshelter'd  from  the  tropic  sun, 
And  now  of  all  he  knew  not  one 
Will  speak  him  fair  in  that  far  land. 
Perhaps  'twas  this  that  made  me  seek, 
Disguised,  his  grave  one  winter-tide ; 


62  WITH  WALKER 

A  weakness  for  the  weaker  side, 
A  siding  with  the  helpless  weak. 

A  palm  not  far  held  out  a  hand, 
Hard  by  a  long  green  bamboo  swung, 
And  bent  like  some  great  bow  unstrung, 
And  quiver'd  like  a  willow  wand ; 
Beneath  a  broad  banana's  leaf, 
Ferch'd  on  its  fruits  that  crooked  hang, 
A  bird  in  rainbow  splendor  sang 
A  low  sad  song  of  temper' d  grief. 

'No  sod,  no  sign,  no  cross  nor  stone, 
But  at  his  side  a  cactus  green 
Upheld  its  lances  long  and  keen ; 
It  stood  in  hot  red  sands  alone, 
Flat-palm'd  and  fierce  with  lifted  spears ; 
One  bloom  of  crimson  crown'd  its  head, 
A  drop  of  blood,  so  bright,  so  red, 
Yet  redolent  as  roses'  tears. 
In  my  left  hand  I  held  a  shell, 
All  rosy  lipp'd  and  pearly  red ; 
I  laid  it  by  his  lowly  bed, 
For  he  did  love  so  passing  well 


IN  NICARAGUA.  63 

The  grand  songs  of  the  solemn  sea. 

0  shell !  sing  well,  wild,  with  a  will, 
When  storms  blow  loud  and  birds  be  still, 
The  wildest  sea-song  known  to  thee  ! 

I  said  some  things,  with  folded  hands, 
Soft  whisper'd  in  the  dim  sea-sound, 
And  eyes  held  humbly  to  the  ground, 
And  frail  knees  sunken  in  the  sands. 
He  had  done  more  than  this  for  me, 
And  yet  I  could  not  well  do  more : 

1  turned  me  down  the  olive  shore, 
And  set  a  sad  face  to  the  sea. 

N 


Tendon.  1871 


CALIFORNIAN. 


Glintings  of  day  in  the  darkness, 

Flashings  of  flint  and  of  steel, 

Blended  in  gossamer  texture 

The  ideal  and  the  real, 

Limrfd  like  the  phantom-ship  shadow, 

Crowding  up  under  the  keel. 


CALIFORNIAN. 


T  STAND  beside  the  mobile  sea ; 

And  sails  are  spread,  and  sails  are  fuii'd 
From  farthest  corners  of  the  world, 
And  fold  like  white  wings  wearily. 
Steamships  go  up,  and  some  go  down 
In  haste,  like  traders  in  a  town, 
And  seem  to  see  and  beckon  all. 
Afar  at  sea  some  white  shapes  flee, 
With  arms  stretch'd  like  a  ghost's  to  me, 
And  cloud-like  sails  far  blown  and  curl'd, 
Then  glide  down  to  the  under- world. 
As  if  blown  bare  in  winter  blasts 
Of  leaf  and  limb,  tall  naked  masts 
Are  rising  from  the  restless  sea, 
So  still  and  desolate  and  tall, 
I  seem  to  see  them  gleam  and  shine 
With  clinging  drops  of  dripping  brine. 


'TTiriVBBSITyj 

& A 

"     arf   ~*  «•*««.«.< 


68  CALIFORNIAN. 

Broad  still  brown  wings  flit  here  and  there, 
Thin  sea-blue  wings  wheel  everywhere, 
And  white  wings  whistle  through  the  air : 
I  hear  a  thousand  sea-gulls  call. 

Behold  the  ocean  on  the  beach 
Kneel  lowly  down  as  if  in  prayer. 
I  hear  a  moan  as  of  despair, 
While  far  at  sea  do  toss  and  reach 
Some  things  so  like  white  pleading  hands. 
The  ocean's  thin  and  hoary  hair 
Is  trail' d  along  the  silver'd  sands, 
At  every  sigh  and  sounding  moan. 
'Tis  not  a  place  for  mirthfulness, 
But  meditation  deep,  and  prayer, 
And  kneelings  on  the  salted  sod, 
Where  man  must  own  his  littleness 
And  know  the  mightiness  of  God. 
The  very  birds  shriek  in  distress 
And  sound  the  ocean's  monotone. 

Dared  I  but  say  a  prophecy, 
As  sang  the  holy  men  of  old, 
Of  rock-built  cities  yet  to  be 


CA.LIFORNIAN.  69 

Along  these  shining  shores  of  gold, 
Crowding  athirst  into  the  sea, 
What  wondrous  marvels  might  be  told ! 
Enough,  to  know  that  empire  here 
Shall  burn  her  loftiest,  brightest  star ; 
Here  art  and  eloquence  shall  reign,       ^ 
As  o'er  the  wolf-rear'd  realm  of  old ; 
Here  learn'd  and  famous  from  afar, 
To  pay  their  noble  court,  shall  come, 
And  shall  not  seek  or  see  in  vain, 
But  look  on  all  with  wonder  dumb. 

Afar  the  bright  Sierras  lie 
A  swaying  line  of  snowy  white, 
A  fringe  of  heaven  hung  in  sight 
Against  the  blue  base  of  the  sky. 

I  look  along  each  gaping  gorge, 
I  hear  a  thousand  sounding  strokes 
Like  giants  rending  giant  oaks, 
Or  brawny  Vulcan  at  his  forge ; 
I  see  pick-axes  flash  and  shine 
And  great  wheels  whirling  in  a  mine. 
Here  winds  a  thick  and  yellow  thread, 


70  CALIFORNIAN. 

A  moss'd  and  silver  stream  instead ; 
And  trout  that  leap'd  its  rippled  tide 
Have  turn'd  upon  their  sides  and  died. 

Lo !  when  the  last  pick  in  the  mine 
Is  rusting  red  with  idleness, 
And  rot  yon  cabins  in  the  mould, 
And  wheels  no  more  croak  in  distress, 
And  tall  pines  reassert  command, 
Sweet  bards  along  this  sunset  shore 
Their  mellow  melodies  will  pour ; 
Will  charm  as  charmers  very  wise, 
Will  strike  the  harp  with  master  hand, 
Will  sound  unto  the  vaulted  skies 
The  valor  of  these  men  of  old  — 
The  mighty  men  of  'Forty-nine ; 
Will  sweetly  sing  and  proudly  say, 
Long,  long  agone  there  was  a  day 
N  When  there  were  giants  in  the  land. 

n. 

CTTRAMBO  !  what  a  cloud  of  dust 
Comes  dashing  down  like  driven  gust ! 


CALIFORNIA!*.  71 

And  who  rides  rushing  on  the  sight 
Adown  yon  rocky  long  defile, 
Swift  as  an  eagle  in  his  flight, 
Fierce  as  a  winter's  storm  at  night 
Blown  from  the  bleak  Sierra's  height, 
Careering  down  some  yawning  gorge  ? 
His  face  is  flush'd,  his  eye  is  wild, 
And  'neath  his  courser's  sounding  feet 
(A  glance  could  barely  be  more  fleet) 
The  rocks  are  flashing  like  a  forge. 
Such  reckless  rider !  —  I  do  ween 
No  mortal  man  his  like  has  seen. 
And  yet,  but  for  his  long  serape 
All  flowing  loose,  and  black  as  crape, 
And  long  silk  locks  of  blackest  hair 
All  streaming  wildly  in  the  breeze, 
You  might  believe  him  in  a  chair, 
Or  chatting  at  some  country  fair 
With  friend  or  senorita  rare, 
He  rides  so  grandly  at  his  ease. 

But  now  he  grasps  a  tighter  rein, 
A  red  rein  wrought  in  golden  chain, 
And  in  his  tapidaros  stands, 


72  CALIFORNIAN. 

Half  turns  and  shakes  two  bloody  hands, 

And  shouts  defiance  at  his  foe ; 

Now  lifts  his  broad  hat  from  his  brow 

As  if  to  challenge  fate,  and  now 

His  hand  drops  to  his  saddle-bow 

And  clutches  something  gleaming  there 

As  if  to  something  more  than  dare, 

While  halts  the  foe  that  follow'd  fast 

As  rushing  wave  or  raving  blast, 

More  sudden-swift  than  though  were  prest 

All  bridle-bands  at  one  behest. 

The  stray  winds  lift  the  raven  curls, 
Soft  as  a  fair  Castilian  girl's, 
And  press  a  brow  so  full  and  high 
Its  every  feature  does  belie 
The  thought  he  is  compell'd  to  fly ; 
A  brow  as  open  as  the  sky 
On  which  you  gaze  and  gaze  again 
As  on  a  picture  you  have  seen 
And  often  sought  to  see  in  vain, 
That  seems  to  hold  a  tale  of  woe 
Or  wonder,  that  you  fain  would  know ; 
A  brow  cut  deep  as  with  a  knife, 


CALIFORNIAN.  73 

With  many  a  dubious  deed  in  life ; 
A  brow  of  blended  pride  and  pain, 
And  yearnings  for  what  should  have  been. 

He  grasps  his  gilded  gory  rein, 
And  wheeling  like  a  hurricane, 
Defying  wood,  or  stone,  or  flood, 
Is  dashing  down  the  gorge  again. 
Oh  never  yet  has  prouder  steed 
Borne  master  nobler  in  his  need ! 
There  is  a  glory  in  his  eye 
That  seems  to  dare  and  to  defy 
Pursuit,  or  time,  or  space,  or  race. 
His  body  is  the  type  of  speed, 
While  from  his  nostril  to  his  heel 
Are  muscles  as  if  made  of  steel. 
He  is  not  black,  nor  gray,  nor  white, 
But  'neath  that  broad  serape  of  night 
And  locks  of  darkness  streaming  o'er, 
His  sleek  sides  seem  a  fiery  red  — 
They  may  be  red  with  gushing  gore. 

What  crimes  have  made  that  red  hand  red  ? 
What  wrongs  have  written  that  young  face 


74  CALIFORNIAN. 

With  lines  of  thought  so  out  of  place  ? 

Where  flies  he  ?    And  from  whence  has  fled  ? 

And  what  his  lineage  and  race  ? 

What  glitters  in  his  heavy  belt, 

And  from  his  furr'd  catenas  gleam  ? 

What  on  his  bosom  that  doth  seem 

A  diamond  bright  or  dagger's  hilt  ? 

The  iron  hoofs  that  still  resound 

Like  thunder  from  the  yielding  ground 

Alone  reply ;  and  now  the  plain, 

Quick  as  you  breathe  and  gaze  again, 

Is  won,  and  all  pursuit  is  vain. 


m. 

I  STAND  upon  a  stony  rim, 
Stone-paved  and  pattern'd  as  a  street ; 
A  rock-lipp'd  canon  plunging  south, 
As  if  it  were  earth's  open'd  mouth, 
Yawns  deep  and  darkling  at  my  feet ; 
So  deep,  so  distant,  and  so  dim 
Its  waters  wind,  a  yellow  thread, 
And  call  so  faintly  and  so  far, 
I  turn  aside  my  swooning  head. 


CA  LIFORNIA  N. 

I  feel  a  fierce  impulse  to  leap 
Adown  the  beetling  precipice, 
Like  some  lone,  lost,  uncertain  star ; 
To  plunge  into  a  place  unknown, 
And  win  a  world  all,  all  my  own ; 
Or  if  I  might  not  meet  that  bliss, 
At  least  escape  the  curse  of  this. 

I  gaze  again.     A  gleaming  star 
Shines  back  as  from  some  mossy  well 
Reflected  from  blue  fields  afar. 
Brown  hawks  are  wheeling  here  and  there, 
And  up  and  down  the  broken  Avail 
Cling  clumps  of  dark  green  chaparral, 
While  from  the  rent  rocks,  gray  and  bare, 
Blue  jumpers  hang  in  the  air. 

Here,  cedars  sweep  the  stream,  and  here, 
Among  the  boulders  moss'd  and  brown 
That  time  and  storms  have  toppled  down 
From  towers  undefiled  by  man, 
Low  cabins  nestle  as  in  fear, 
And  look  no  taller  than  a  span. 
From  low  and  shapeless  chimneys  rise 


76  CALIFORNIAN. 

Some  tall  straight  columns  of  blue  smoke, 
And  weld  them  to  the  bluer  skies ; 
While  sounding  down  the  sombre  gorge 
I  hear  the  steady  pick-axe  stroke, 
As  if  upon  a  flashing  forge. 

Another  scene,  another  sound !  — 
Sharp  shots  are  fretting  through  the  air, 
Red  knives  are  flashing  everywhere, 
And  here  and  there  the  yellow  flood 
Is  purpled  with  warm  smoking  blood. 
The  brown  hawk  swoops  low  to  the  ground, 
And  nimble  chip-monks,  small  and  still, 
Dart  striped  lines  across  the  sill 
That  lordly  feet  shall  press  no  more. 
The  flume  lies  warping  in  the  sun, 
The  pan  sits  empty  by  the  door, 
The  pick-axe  on  its  bed-rock  floor 
Lies  rusting  in  the  silent  mine. 
There  conies  no  single  sound  nor  sign 
Of  life,  beside  yon  monks  in  brown 
That  dart  their  dim  shapes  up  and  down 
The  rocks  that  swelter  in  the  sun ; 
But  dashing  round  yon  rocky  spur 


CALIFORNIAN.  77 

Where  scarce  a  hawk  would  dare  to  whirr, 
Fly  horsemen  reckless  in  their  flight. 
One  wears  a  flowing  black  capote, 
While  down  the  cape  doth  flow  and  float 
Long  locks  of  hair  as  dark  as  night, 
And  hands  are  red  that  erst  were  white. 

All  up  and  down  the  land  to-day 
Black  desolation  and  despair 
It  seems  have  sat  and  settled  there, 
With  none  to  frighten  them  away. 
Like  sentries  watching  by  the  way 
Black  chimneys  topple  in  the  air, 
And  seem  to  say,  Go  back,  beware ! 
While  up  around  the  mountain's  rim 
Are  clouds  of  smoke,  so  still  and  grim 
They  look  as  they  are  fasten'd  there. 

A  lonely  stillness,  so  like  death, 
So  touches,  terrifies  all  things, 
That  even  rooks  that  fly  o'erhead 
Are  hush'd,  and  seem  to  hold  their  breath, 
To  fly  with  muffled  wings, 
And  heavy  as  if  made  of  lead. 


78  CALIFORNIAN. 

Some  skulls  that  crumble  to  the  touch, 

Some  joints  of  thin  and  chalk-like  bone, 

A  tall  black  chimney,  all  alone, 

That  leans  as  if  upon  a  crutch, 

Alone  are  left  to  mark  or  tell, 

Instead  of  cross  or  cryptic  stone, 

Where  fair  maids  loved  or  brave  men  fell. 


I  look  along  the  valley's  edge, 
Where  swings  the  white  road  like  a  swell 
Of  surf,  along  a  sea  of  hedge 
And  black  and  brittle  chaparral, 
And  enters  like  an  iron  wedge 
Drove  in  the  mountain  dun  and  brown, 
As  if  to  split  the  hills  in  twain. 
Two  clouds  of  dust  roll  o'er  the  plain, 
And  men  ride  up  and  men  ride  down, 
And  hot  men  halt,  and  curse  and  shout, 
And  coming  coursers  plunge  and  neigh. 
The  clouds  of  dust  are  roll'd  in  one  — 
And  horses,  horsemen,  where  are  they  ? 
Lo  !  through  a  rift  of  dust  and  dun, 
Of  desolation  and  of  rout, 


CALIFORNIAN.  79 

I  see  some  long  white  daggers  flash, 
I  hear  the  sharp  hot  pistols  crash, 
And  curses  loud  in  mad  despair 
Are  blended  with  a  plaintive  prayer 
That  struggles  through  the  dust  and  air. 


The  cloud  is  lifting  like  a  veil : 
The  frantic  curse,  the  plaintive  wail 
Have  died  away ;  nor  sound  nor  word 
Along  the  dusty  plain  is  heard 
Save  sounding  of  yon  courser's  feet, 
Who  flies  so  fearfully  and  fleet, 
"With  gory  girth  and  broken  rein, 
Across  the  hot  and  trackless  plain. 
Behold  him,  as  he  trembling  flies, 
Look  back  with  red  and  bursting  eyes 
To  where  his  gory  master  lies. 
The  cloud  is  lifting  like  a  veil, 
But  underneath  its  drifting  sail 
I  see  a  loose  and  black  capote 
In  careless  heed  far  fly  and  float, 
So  vulture-like  above  a  steed 
Of  perfect  mould  and  passing  speed. 


8o  CALIFORNIAN. 

Here  lies  a  man  of  giant  mould, 
His  mighty  right  arm,  perfect  bare 
Save  but  its  sable  coat  of  hair, 
Is  clutching  in  its  iron  clasp 
A  clump  of  sage,  as  if  to  hold 
The  earth  from  slipping  from  his  grasp  ; 
While,  stealing  from  his  brow,  a  stain 
Of  purple  blood  and  gory  brain 
Yields  to  the  parch'd  lips  of  the  plain, 
Swift  to  resolve  to  dust  again. 

Lo !  friend  and  foe  blend  here  and  there 
With  dusty  lips  and  trailing  hair : 
Some  with  a  cold  and  sullen  stare, 
Some  with  their  red  hands  clasp'd  in  prayer. 

Here  lies  a  youth,  whose  fair  face  is 
Still  holy  from  a  mother's  kiss, 
With  brow  as  white  as  alabaster, 
Save  a  tell-tale  powder-stain 
Of  a  deed  and  a  disaster 
That  will  never  come  again, 
With  their  perils  and  their  pain. 

The  tinkle  of  bells  on  the  bended  hills. 


CALIFORNIA  N.  81 

The  hum  of  bees  in  the  orange  trees, 
And  the  lowly  call  of  the  beaded  rills 
Are  heard  in  the  land  as  I  look  again 
Over  the  peaceful  battle-plain. 
Murderous  man  from  the  field  has  fled, 
Fled  in  fear  from  the  face  of  his  dead. 
He  battled,  he  bled,  he  ruled  a  day  — 
And  peaceful  Nature  resumes  her  sway. 
And  the  sward  where  yonder  corses  lie, 
When  the  verdant  season  shall  come  again, 
Shall  greener  grow  than  it  grew  before ; 
Shall  again  in  sun-clime  glory  vie 
With  the  gayest  green  in  the  tropic  scene, 
Taking  its  freshness  back  once  more 
From  them  that  despoil'd  it  yesterday. 


IV. 

The  sun  is  red  and  flush'd  and  dry, 
And  fretted  from  his  weary  beat 
Across  the  hot  and  desert  sky, 
And  swollen  as  from  overheat, 
And  failing  too ;  for  see,  he  sinks 
Swift  as  a  ball  of  burnish'd  ore : 
6 


82  CALIFORNIAN. 

It  may  be  fancy,  but  methinks 
He  never  fell  so  fast  before. 

I  hear  the  neighing  of  hot  steeds, 
I  see  the  marshalling  of  men 
That  silent  move  among  the  trees 
As  busily  as  swarming  bees 
With  step  and  stealthiness  profound, 
On  carpetings  of  spindled  weeds, 
Without  a  syllable  or  sound 
Save  clashing  of  their  burnish'd  arms, 
Clinking  dull  death-like  alarms  — 
Grim  bearded  men  and  brawny  men 
That  grope  among  the  ghostly  trees. 
Were  ever  silent  men  as  these  ? 
Was  ever  sombre  forest  deep 
And  dark  as  this  ?     Here  one  might  sleep 
While  all  the  weary  years  went  round, 
Nor  wake  nor  weep  for  sun  or  sound. 

A  stone's-throw  to  the  right,  a  rock 
Has  rear'd  his  head  among  the  stars  — 
An  island  in  the  upper  deep  — 
And  on  his  front  a  thousand  scars 


CALIFORNIA  N.  83 

Of  thunders  crash  and  earthquake's  shock 
Are  seam'd  as  if  by  sabre's  sweep 
Of  gods,  enraged  that  he  should  rear 
His  front  amid  their  realms  of  air. 

What  moves  along  his  beetling  brow, 
So  small,  so  indistinct  and  far, 
This  side  yon  blazing  evening  star, 
Seen  through  that  redwood's  shifting  bough  ? 
A  lookout  on  the  world  below  ? 
A  watcher  for  the  friend  —  or  foe  ? 
This  still  troop's  sentry  it  must  be, 
Yet  seems  no  taller  than  my  knee. 

But  f6r  the  grandeur  .of  this  gloom, 
And  for  the  chafing  steeds'  alarms, 
And  brown  men's  sullen  clash  of  arms, 
This  were  but  as  a  living  tomb. 
These  weeds  are  spindled,  pale  and  white, 
As  if  nor  sunshine,  life  nor  light 
Had  ever  reach'd  this  forest's  heart. 
Above,  the  redwood  boughs  entwine 
As  dense  as  copse  of  tangled  vine  — 
Above,  so  fearfully  afar, 


84  CALIFORNIAN. 

It  seems  as  'twere  a  lesser  sky, 
A  sky  without  a  moon  or  star, 
The  moss'd  boughs  are  so  thick  and  high. 
At  every  lisp  of  leaf  I  start ! 
Would  I  could  hear  a  cricket  trill, 
Or  that  yon  sentry  from  his  hill 
Might  shout  or  show  some  sign  of  life, 
The  place  does  seem  so  deathly  still. 
"  Mount  ye,  and  forward  for  the  strife ! " 
Who  by  yon  dark  trunk  sullen  stands, 
With  black  serape  and  bloody  hands, 
And  coldly  gives  his  brief  commands  ? 

They  mount  —  away !     Quick  on  his  heel 
He  turns,  and  grasps  his  gleaming  steel  — 
Then  sadly  smiles,  and  stoops  to  kiss 
An  upturn'd  face  so  sweetly  fair, 
So  sadly,  saintly,  purely  fair, 
So  rich  of  blessedness  and  bliss ! 
I  know  she  is  not  flesh  and  blood, 
But  some  sweet  spirit  of  this  wood ; 
I  know  it  by  her  wealth  of  hair, 
And  step  on  the  unyielding  air  ; 
Her  seamless  robe  of  shining  white, 


CALIFORNIAN.  85 

Her  soul-deep  eyes  of  darkest  night : 
But  over  all  and  more  than  all 
TKat  could  be  said  or  can  befall, 
That  tongue  can  tell  or  pen  can  trace, 
That  wondrous  witchery  of  face. 

Between  the  trees  I  see  him  stride 
To  where  a  red  steed  fretting  stands 
Impatient  for  his  lord's  commands : 
And  she  glides  noiseless  at  his  side. 

Lo !  not  a  bud,  or  leaf,  or  stem, 
Beneath  her  feet  is  bowed  or  bent ; 
They  only  nod,  as  if  in  sleep, 
And  all  their  grace  and  freshness  keep  ; 
And  now  will  in  their  beauty  bloom, 
In  pink  and  pearl  habiliment, 
As  though  fresh  risen  from  a  tomb, 
For  fairest  sun  has  shone  on  them. 

"  The  world  is  mantling  black  again ! 
Beneath  us,  o'er  the  sleeping  plain, 
Dull  steel-gray  clouds  slide  up  and  down 
As  if  the  still  earth  wore  a  frown. 
The  west  is  red  with  sunlight  slain !  " 


86  CALIFORNIAN. 

(One  hand  toys  with  her  waving  hair, 
Soft  lifting  from  her  shoulders  bare  ; 
The  other  holds  the  loosen'd  rein, 
And  rests  upon  the  swelling  mane 
That  curls  the  curved  neck  o'er  and  o'er, 
Like  waves  that  swirl  along  the  shore. 
He  hears  the  last  retreating  sound 
Of  iron  on  volcanic  stone, 
That  echoes  far  from  peak  to  plain, 
And  'neath  the  dense  wood's  sable  zone 
He  peers  the  dark  Sierras  down.) 
"  But  darker  yet  shall  be  the  frown, 
And  redder  yet  shall  be  the  flame. 
v     And  yet  I  would  that  this  were  not  — 
That  all,  forgiven  or  forgot 
Of  curses  deep  and  awful  crimes, 
Of  blood  and  terror,  could  but  seem 
Some  troubled  and  unholy  dream ; 
That  even  now  I  could  awake, 
And  waking  find  me  once  again 
With  hand  and  heart  without  a  stain, 
Swift  gliding  o'er  that  sunny  lake, 
Begirt  with  town  and  castle- wall, 
Where  first  I  saw  the  silver  light  — 


CALIFORNIAN,  87 

Begirt  with  blossoms,  and  the  bloom 
Of  orange,  sweet  with  the  perfume 
Of  cactus,  pomegranate,  and  all 
The  thousand  sweets  of  tropic  climes ; 
And,  waking,  see  the  mellow  moon 
Pour'd  out  in  gorgeous  plenilune 
On  silrer  ripples  of  that  tide ; 
And,  waking,  hear  soft  music  pour 
Along  that  flora-formed  shore ; 
And,  waking,  find  you  at  my  side, 
My  father's  moss'd  and  massive  halls, 
My  brothers  in  their  strength  and  pride." 


(His  hand  forsakes  her  raven  hair, 
His  eyes  have  an  unearthly  glare : 
She  shrinks  and  shudders  at  his  side, 
Then  lifts  to  his  her  moisten'd  eye, 
And  only  looks  her  sad  reply. 
A  sullenness  his  soul  enthrals, 
A  silence  born  of  hate  and  pride  ;  . 
His  fierce  volcanic  heart  so  deep 
Is  stirr'd,  his  teeth,  despite  his  will, 
Do  chatter  as  if  in  a  chill ; 


88  CALIFORNIAN. 

His  very  dagger  at  his  side 
Does  shake  and  rattle  in  its  sheath, 
As  blades  of  brown  grass  in  a  gale 
Do  rustle  on  the  frosted  heath  : 
And  yet  he  does  not  bend  or  weep.) 

"  I  did  not  vow  a  girlish  vow, 
Nor  idle  imprecation  now 
Will  I  bestow  by  boasting  word  — 
Feats  of  the  tongue  become  the  knave. 
A  wailing  in  the  land  is  heard 
For  those  that  will  not  come  again ; 
And  weeping  for  the  rashly  brave, 
Who  sleep  in  many  a  gulch  and  glen, 
Has  wet  a  hundred  hearths  with  tears, 
And  darken'd  them  for  years  and  years. 
Would  I  could  turn  their  tears  to  gore, 
Make  every  hearth  as  cold  as  one 
Is  now  upon  that  sweet  lake  shore, 
Where  my  dear  kindred  dwelt  of  yore  ; 
Where  now  is  but  an  ashen  heap, 
And  mass  of  mossy  earth  and  stone ; 
Where  round  an  altar  black  wolves  keep 
Their  carnival  and  doleful  moan ; 


CALIFORNIA^.  89 

Where  horned  lizards  dart  and  climb, 
And  mollusks  slide  and  leave  their  slime. 

"  But  tremble  not.     This  night,  my  own, 
Shall  see  my  fierce  foe  overthrown ; 
And  ere  the  day-star  gleams  again 
My  horse's  hoofs  shall  spurn  the  dead  — 
The  still  warm  reeking  dead  of  those 
Who  brought  us  all  our  bitter  woes ; 
While  all  my  glad  returning  way 
Shall  be  as  light  as  living  day, 
From  ranchos,  campos,  burning  red. 
And  then !  And  then,  my  peri  pearl "  — 
(As  if  to  charm  her  from  her  fears 
And  drive  away  the  starting  tears, 
Again  his  small  hand  seeks  a  curl, 
And  voice  forgets  its  sullen  ire, 
And  eye  forsakes  its  flashing  fire)  — 
"Away  to  where  the  orange  tree 
Is  white  through  all  the  cycled  years, 
And  love  lives  an  eternity ; 
Where  birds  are  never  out  of  tune 
And  life  knows  no  decline  of  noon ; 
Where  winds  are  sweet  as  woman's  breath, 


90  CALIFORNIAN. 

And  purpled,  dreamy,  mellow  skies 
Are  lovely  as  a  woman's  eyes,  — 
There,  we  in  cairn  and  perfect  bliss 
Of  boundless  faith  and  sweet  delight 
Shall  realize  the  world  above, 
Forgetting  all  the  wrongs  of  this, 
Forgetting  all  of  blood  and  death, 
And  all  your  terrors  of  to-night, 
In  pure  devotion  and  deep  love." 

As  gently  as  a  mother  bows 
Her  first-born  sleeping  babe  above, 
The  cherish'd  cherub  lips  to  kiss 
In  her  full  blessedness  and  bliss, 
He  bends  to  her  with  stately  air, 
His  proud  head  in  its  cloud  of  hair. 
I  do  not  heed  the  hallow'd  kiss ; 
I  do  not  hear  the  hurried  vows 
Of  passion,  faith,  unfailing  love ; 
I  do  not  mark  the  prison'd  sigh, 
I  do  not  meet  the  moisten'd  eye : 
A  low  sweet  melody  is  heard 
Like  cooing  of  some  Balize  bird, 
So  fine  it  does  not  touch  the  air, 


CALIFORNIAN.  91 

So  faint  it  stirs  not  anywhere ; 
Faint  as  the  falling  of  the  dew, 
Low  as  a  pure  unutter'd  prayer, 
The  meeting,  mingling,  as  it  were, 
Of  souls  in  paradisal  bliss. 

Erect,  again  he  grasps  the  rein 
So  tight,  as  to  the  seat  he  springs, 
I  see  his  red  steed  plunge  and  poise 
And  beat  the  air  with  iron  feet, 
And  curve  his  noble  glossy  neck, 
And  toss  on  high  his  swelling  mane, 
And  leap  —  away !  he  spurns  the  rein, 
And  flies  so  fearfully  and  fleet, 
But  for  the  hot  hoofs'  ringing  noise 
'Twould  seem  as  if  he  were  on  wings. 

And  she  is  gone !  Gone  like  a  breath, 
Gone  like  a  white  sail  seen  at  night 
A  moment,  and  then  lost  to  sight ; 
Gone  like  a  star  you  look  upon, 
That  glimmers  to  a  bead,  a  speck, 
Then  softly  melts  into  the  dawn, 
And  all  is  still  and  dark  as  .death. 


g2  CALIFORNIAN. 


v. 


I  LOOK  far  down  a  dewy  vale, 
Where  cool  palms  lean  along  a  brook 
As  crooked  as  a  shepherd's  crook. 
Bed  parrots  call  from  orange  trees, 
Where  white  lips  kiss  the  idle  breeze, 
And  murmur  with  the  hum  of  bees : 
The  gray  dove  coos  his  low  love-tale. 

With  cross  outstretch'd  like  pleading  hands 
That  mutely  plead  the  faith  of  Christ, 
Amid  the  palms  a  low  church  stands  : 
1  I  would  that  man  might  learn  from  these 
The  priceless  victories  of  Peace, 
And  woo  her  'mid  these  olive  trees, 
And  win  an  earthly  paradise. 

I  see  black  clouds  of  troops  afar 
Sweep  like  a  surge  that  sweeps  the  shore, 
And  check'ring  all  the  green  hills  o'er 
Are  battlements  and  signs  of  war. 


CALIFORNIAN.  93 

I  hear  the  hoarse-voiced  cannon  roar : 
The  red-mouth'd  orators  of  war 
Plead  as  they  never  plead  before ; 
While  outdone  thunder  stops  his  car 
And  leans  in  wonderment  afar. 

A  fragment  from  the  struggle  rent 
Forsakes  the  rugged  battlement, 
And  winds  it  painfully  and  slow 
Across  the  rent  and  riven  lands 
To  where  a  gray  church  open  stands, 
As  if  it  bore  a  load  of  woe. 

Curambo !  'tis  a  chief  they  bear ! 
And  by  his  black  and  flowing  hair 
Methinks  I  have  seen  him  before. 
A  gray  priest  guides  them  through  the  door, 
They  lay  him  bleeding  on  the  floor. 

He  moves,  he  lifts  his  feeble  hand, 
And  points  with  tried  and  trenched  brand, 
And  bids  them  to  the  battle-plain. 
They  turn  —  they  pause :  he  bids  again ; 
They  turn  a  last  time  to  their  chief, 


94  CALIFORNIAN. 

And  gaze  in  silence  and  deep  pain, 

For  silence  speaks  the  deepest  grief. 

They  clutch  their  blades ;  they  turn  —  are  gone 

And  priest  and  chief  are  left  alone. 

"So  here  my  last  day  has  its  close, 
And  here  it  ends.     Here  all  is  not. 
I  am  content.     'Tis  what  1  sought  — 
Revenge  —  and  then  my  last  repose. 
Oh  for  the  rest  —  for  the  rest  eternal ! 
Oh  for  the  deep  and  the  dreamless  sleep ! 
Where  never  a  hope  lures  to  deceive ; 
Where  never  a  heart  beats  but  to  grieve  ; 
Nor  thoughts  of  heaven  or  hells  infernal 
Shall  ever  wake  or  dare  to  break 
The  rest  of  an  everlasting  sleep ! 

"  Is  there  truth  in  the  life  eternal  ? 
Will  our  memories  never  die  ? 
Shall  we  relive  in  realms  supernal 
Life's  resplendent  and  glorious  lie  ? 
Death  has  not  one  shape  so  frightful 
But  defiantly  I  would  brave  it ; 
Earth  has  nothing  so  delightful 


CALIFORNIAN.  95 

But  my  soul  would  scorn  to  crave  it, 
Could  I  know  for  sure,  for  certain, 
That  the  falling  of  the  curtain 
And  the  folding  of  the  hands 
Is  the  full  and  the  final  casting 
Of  accounts  for  the  everlasting ! 
Everlasting,  and  everlasting! 

"  Well,  I  have  known,  I  know  not  why, 
Through  all  my  dubious  days  of  strife, 
That  when  we  live  our  deeds  we  die ; 
That  man  may  in  one  hour  live  vX 

All  that  his  life  can  bear  or  give. 
This  1  have  done,  and  do  not  grieve, 
For  I  am  older  by  a  score 
Than  many  born  long,  long  before, 
If  sorrows  be  the  sum  of  life. 

"  Ay,  I  am  old  —  old  as  the  years 
Could  brand  me  with  their  blood  and  tears; 
For  with  my  fingers  I  can  trace 
Grief's  trenches  on  my  hollow  face, 
And  through  my  thin  frame  I  can  feel 
The  pulses  of  my  frozen  heart 


96  CALIFORNIAN. 

Beat  with  a  dull  uncertain  start : 
And,  mirror'd  in  my  sword,  to-day, 
Before  its  edge  of  gleaming  steel 
Had  lost  its  lustre  in  the  fray, 
I  saw  around  my  temples  stray 
Thin  straggling  locks  of  steely  gray. 

"  Fly,  fly  you,  to  yon  snoAvy  height, 
And  tell  to  her  I  fail,  I  die  ! 
Fly  swiftly,  priest,  I  bid  you !  —  fly 
Before  the  falling  of  the  night  I 
What!  know  her  not?  O  priest,  be  ware! 
I  warn  you  answer  thus  no  more, 
But  bend  your  dull  ear  to  the  floor, 
And  hear  you  who  she  is,  and  where. 

"  She  is.  the  last,  last  of  a  line, 
With  blood  as  rich  and  warm  as  wine, 
And  blended  blood  of  god  and  king ; 
Last  of  the  Montezumas'  line 
Who  dwelt  up  in  the  yellow  sun, 
And,  sorrowing  for  man's  despair, 
Slid  by  his  trailing  yellow  hair 
To  earth,  to  rule  with  love  and  bring 


CALIFORNIAN.  97 

The  blessedness  of  peace  to  us. 

She  is  the  last,  last  earthly  one 

Of  all  the  children  of  the  sun ; 

A  sweet  perfume  still  lingering 

In  essence  pure,  and  living  thus 

In  blessedness  about  the  spot, 

When  rose,  and  bush,  and  bloom  are  not. 

"  Beside  Tezcuco's  flowery  shore, 
Where  waves  were  washing  evermore 
The  massive  columns  of  its  wall, 
Stood  Montezuma's  mighty  hall. 
And  here  the  Montezumas  reign'd 
In  perfect  peace  and  love  unfeign'd, 
Until,  from  underneath  the  sea 
Where  all  sin  is,  or  ought  to  be, 
Came  men  of  death  and  strange  device, 
Who  taught  a  mad  and  mystic  faith 
Of  crucifixion  and  of  Christ, 
More  hated  than  the  plague  or  death. 

"  Nay,  do  not  swing  your  cross  o'er  me ; 
You  cross'd  you  once,  but  do  not  twice, 
Nor  dare  repeat  the  name  of  Christ ; 

7 


98  CALfFORNIAN. 

N"or  start,  nor  think  to  fly,  nor  frown, 
While  you  the  stole  and  surplice  wear ; 
For  I  do  clutch  your  sable  gown, 
And  you  shall  hear  my  curse,  or  prayer, 
And  be  my  priest  in  my  despair ; 
Since  neither  priest,  nor  sign,  nor  shrine 
Is  left  in  all  the  land,  of  mine. 

"  Enough !     We  know,  alas !  too  well, 
How  red  Christ  ruled  —  Tonatiu  fell. 
The  black  wolf  in  our  ancient  halls 
Unfrighten'd  sleeps  the  live-long  day. 
The  stout  roots  burst  the  mossy  walls, 
And  in  the  moonlight  wild  dogs  play 
Around  the  plazas  overgrown, 
Where  rude  boars  hold  their  carnivals. 
The  moss  is  on  our  altar-stone, 
The  mould  on  Montezuma's  throne, 
And  symbols  in  the  desert  strown. 

"  And  when  your  persecutions  ceased 
From  troop,  and  king,  and  cowled  priest, 
That  we  had  felt  for  centuries  — 
(Ah !   know  you,  priest,  that  cross  of  thine 


CALIFORNIAN.  99 

Is  but  death's  symbol,  and  the  sign 

Of  blood  and  butchery  and  tears  ?  )  — 

And  when  return'd  the  faithful  few, 

Beside  Tezcuco's  sacred  shore, 

To  build  their  broken  shrines  anew, 

They  number'd  scarce  a  broken  score. 

Here  dwelt  my  father  —  here  she  dwelt 

Here  kept  one  altar  burning  bright, 

Last  of  the  thousands  that  had  shone 

Along  the  mountain's  brows  of  stone, 

Last  of  a  thousand  stars  of  night. 

To  Tonatiu  Ytzaqual  we  bow'd  — 

Nay,  do  not  start,  nor  shape  the  sign 

Of  horror  at  this  creed  of  mine, 

Nor  call  again  the  name  of  Christ : 

You  cross  you  once,  you  cross  you  twice  — 

I  warn  you  do  not  cross  you  thrice ; 

Nor  will  I  brook  a  sign  or  look 

Of  anger  at  her  faith  avow'd. 

I  am  no  creedist.    Faith  to  me 

Is  but  a  name  for  mystery. 

I  only  know  this  faith  is  her's :     "^ 

I  care  to  know  no  more,  to  be 

The  truest  of  its  worshippers. 


:>  CALIFORNIAN. 

"  The  Cold-men  came  across  the  plain* 
With  gory  blade  and  brand  of  flame  : 
I  know  not  that  they  knew  or  cared 
What  was  our  race,  or  creed,  or  name  ; 
I  only  know  the  Northmen  dared 
Assault  and  sack,  for  sake  of  gain 
Of  sacred  vessels  wrought  in  gold, 
The  temple  where  gods  dwelt  of  old ; 
And  that  my  father,  brothers,  dared 
Defend  their  shrines  —  and  all  were  slain. 

" '  Fly  with  the  maid,'  my  father  cried, 
When  first  the  fierce  assault  was  made  — 
'  A  boat  chafes  at  the  causeway  side,' 
And  in  the  instant  was  obey'd. 
We  gain'd  the  boat,  sprang  in,  away 
We  dash'd  along  the  dimpled  tide. 

"  It  must  have  been  they  thought  we  bore 
The  treasure  in  our  flight  and  haste, 
For  in  an  instant  from  the  shore 
An  hundred  crafts  were  making  chase, 
And  as  their  sharp  prows  drew  apace 


CAUFORNIAN.  101 

I  caught  a  carbine  to  my  face. 

She,  rising,  dash'd  it  quick  aside ; 

And,  when  their  hands  were  stretch'd  to  clasp 

The  boat's  prow  in  their  eager  grasp, 

She  turn'd  to  me  and  sudden  cried, 

'  Come,  come !  '   and  plunged  into  the  tide. 

I  plunged  into  the  dimpled  wave : 

I  had  no  thought  but  'twas  my  grave ; 

But  faith  had  never  follower 

More  true  than  I  to  follow  her. 


"  On,  on  through  purple  wave  she  cleaves, 
As  shoots  a  sunbeam  through  the  leaves. 
At  last  —  what  miracle  was  there !  — 
Again  we  breathed  the  welcome  air; 
And,  resting  by  the  rising  tide, 
The  secret  outlet  of  the  lake, 
Safe  hid  by  trackless  fern  and  brake, 
With  yellow  lilies  at  her  side, 
She  told  me  how  in  ages  gone 
Her  Fathers  built  with  sacred  stone 
This  secret  way  beneath  the  tide, 
That  now  was  known  to  her  alone. 


102  CALIFORNIAN. 

"  When  night  came  on  and  all  was  still, 
And  stole  the  white  moon  down  the  hill 
As  soft,  as  if  she  too  fear'd  ill, 
Again  I  sought  the  sacred  halls 
And  on  the  curving  causeway  stood. 
I  look'd —  naught  but  the  blacken'd  walls 
And  charr'd  bones  of  my  kindred  blood 
Was  left  beside  the  dimpled  flood. 


"  Enough !     Mine  was  no  temper'd  steel 
To-day  upon  the  stormy  field, 
As  many  trench'd  heads  yonder  feel, 
And  many  felt,  that  feel  no  more, 
That  fought  beneath  your  cross  and  shield, 
And,  falling,  called  in  vain  to  Christ. 
You  curs'd  monk !  dare  you  cross  you  thrice, 
When  I  have  warn'd  you  twice  before  ? 
To  you  and  your  damn'd  faith  I  owe 
My  heritage  of  crime  and  woe  ; 
You  shall  not  live  to  mock  me  more 
If  there  be  temper  in  this  brand, 
Or  nerve  left  in  this  bloody  hand. 


CALIFORNIAN.  103 


I  start,  I  leave  the  stony  ground, 
Despite  of  blood  or  mortal  wound, 
Or  darkness  that  has  dimm'd  the  eye, 
Or  senses  that  do  dance  and  reel  — 
I  clutch  a  throat — I  clench  a  steel  — 
I  thrust  — 1  fail  — I  fall  — I  die  ..." 


VI. 


SHE  stands  upon  the  wild  watch-tower 
And  with  her  own  hand  feeds  the  flame 
The  beacon-light  to  guide  again 
His  coming  from  the  battle-plain. 
'Tis  wearing  past  the  midnight  hour, 
The  latest  that  he  ever  came, 
Yet  silence  reigns  around  the  tower. 

'Tis  hours  past  the  midnight  hour: 
She  calls,  she  looks,  she  lists  in  vain 
For  sight  or  sound  from  peak  or  plain. 
She  moves  along  the  beetling  tower, 
She  leans,  she  lists  forlorn  and  lone, 
She  stoops  her  ear  low  to  the  ground, 


104  CALIFORNIAN. 

In  hope  to  catch  the  welcome  sound 
Of  iron  on  the  rugged  stone. 

In  vain  she  peers  down  in  the  night 
But  for  one  feeble  flash  of  light 
From  flinty  stone  and  feet  of  steel. 
She  stands  upon  the  fearful  rim, 
Where  even  coolest  head  would  reel, 
And  fearless  leans  her  form  far  o'er 
Its  edge,  and  lifts  her  hands  to  him, 
And  calls  in  words  as  sweetly  wild 
As  bleeding  saint  or  sorrowing  child. 
She  looks,  she  lists,  she  leans  in  vain, 
In  vain  his  dalliance  does  deplore ; 
She  turns  her  to  the  light  again, 
And  bids  the  watchman  to  the  plain, 
Defying  night  or  dubious  way, 
To  guide  the  flight  or  join  the  fray. 

The  day-star  dances  on  the  snow 
That  gleams  along  Sierra's  crown 
In  gorgeous  everlasting  glow 
And  frozen  glory  and  renown. 
Yet  still  she  feeds  the  beacon  flame, 
And  lists,  and  looks,  and  leans  in  vain. 


CALIFORNIAN.  105 

The  day  has  dawn'd.     She  still  is  there  1 
Yet  in  her  sad  and  silent  air 
I  read  the  stillness  of  despair. 
Why  burns  the  red  light  on  the  tower 
So  brightly  at  this  useless  hour? 
But  see !     The  day-king  hurls  a  dart 
At  darkness,  and  his  cold  black  heart 
Is  pierced ;  and  now,  compell'd  to  flee, 
Flies  bleeding  to  the  farther  sea. 
And  now,  behold,  she  radiant  stands, 
And  lifts  her  thin  white  jewell'd  hands 
Unto  the  broad,  unfolding  sun, 
And  hails  him  Tonatiu  and  King 
With  hallo w'd  mien  and  holy  prayer. 
Her  fingers  o'er  some  symbols  run, 
Her  knees  are  bow'd  in  worshipping 
Her  God,  beheld  when  thine  is  not, 
In  form  of  faith  long,  long  forgot. 

Again  she  lifts  her  brown  arms  bare, 
Far  flashing  in  their  bands  of  gold 
And  precious  stones,  rare,  rich,  and  old. 
Was  ever  mortal  half  so  fair  ? 
Was  ever  such  a  wealth  of  hair  ? 


106  CALIFORNIAN. 

Was  ever  such  a  plaintive  air  ? 
Was  ever  such  a  sweet  despair  ? 

Still  humbler  now  her  form  she  bends  ; 
Still  higher  now  the  flame  ascends : 
She  bares  her  bosom  to  the  sun. 
Again  her  jewell'd  fingers  run 
In  signs  and  sacred  form  and  prayer. 
She  bows  with  awe  and  holy  air 
In  lowly  worship  to  the  sun ; 
Then  rising  calls  her  lover's  name, 
And  leaps  into  the  leaping  flame. 

I  do  not  hear  the  faintest  moan, 
Or  sound,  or  syllable,  or  tone. 
The  red  flames  stoop  a  moment  down, 
As  if  to  raise  her  from  the  ground  ; 
They  whirl,  they  swirl,  they  sweep  around 
With  light'ning  feet  and  fiery  crown  ; 
Then  stand  up,  tall,  tip-toed,  as  one 
Would  hand  a  soul  up  to  the  sun. 


THE  LAST  TASCHASTAS. 


TJie  hills  were  brown,  the  heavens  were  blue, 

A  woodpecker  pounded  a  pine-top  shell, 

While  a  partridge  whistled  the  whole  day  through 

For  a  rabbit  to  dance  in  the  cliapparal, 

And  a  gray  grouse  drummed,  "All's  well,  alVs  well? 


THE  LAST  TASCHASTAS. 

PART  FIKST. 

T  T  7RINKLED  and  brown  as  a  bag  of  leather, 

A  squaw  sits  moaning  long  and  low. 
Yesterday  she  was  a  wife  and  mother, 
To-day  she  is  rocking  her  to  and  fro, 
A  childless  widow,  in  weeds  and  woe. 

An  Indian  sits  in  a  rocky  cavern 
Whetting  a  flint  in  an  arrow  head ; 
His  children  are  moving  as  still  as  shadows, 
His  squaw  is  moulding  some  balls  of  lead, 
With  her  round  face  painted  the  battle-red. 

An  Indian  sits  in  a  black-jack  jungle, 
Where  a  grizzly  bear  has  rear'd  her  young, 
Whetting  a  flint  on  a  granite  boulder, 
And  his  quiver  is  over  his  brown  back  hung, 
And  his  face  is  streak'd  and  his  bow  is  strung. 


I  io  THE  LAST  TASCHASTAS. 

An  Indian  hangs  from  a  cliff  of  granite, 
Like  an  eagle's  nest  built  in  the  air, 
Looking  away  to  the  east,  and  watching 
The  smoke  of  the  cabins  curling  there, 
And  eagles'  feathers  are  in  his  hair. 

In  belt  of  wampum,  in  battle  fashion, 

An  Indian  watches  with  wild  desire. 

He  is  red  with  paint,  he  is  black  with  passion, 

And  grand  as  a  god  in  his  savage  ire, 

As  he  leans  and  listens  till  stars  are  a-fire. 


Sombre  and  sullen  and  sad,  the  chieftain 
Looks  from  the  mountain  far  into  the  sea. 
Just  before  him  beat  in  the  white  billows, 
Just  behind  him  the  toppled  tall  tree 
And  chopping  of  woodmen,  knee  buckl'd  to  knee. 

Long  he  looks,  and  he  leans  and  listens  — 
Waves  before  him,  behind  him  white  waves 
Beating  and  breaking  on  the  last  Taschnstas  ; 
Waves  that  have  toppled  across  red  braves, 
Levell'd,  and  left  not  a  sign  of  their  graves. 


THE  LAST  TASCHASTAS.  111 

"  Awake  and  arise !     O,  remnant  Taschastas ! 
Awake  to  the  life  that  is  death  in  the  land, 
And  this  shall  be  doubled  in  dust  contented  " — 
He  lifts  to  heaven  his  doubled  right  hand, 
Flashing  afar  with  a  great  gold  band. 

PAET  SECOND. 
*  *  *  *  * 

ALL  together,  all  in  council, 
In  a  canon  wall'd  so  high 
That  no  thing  could  ever  reach  them 
Save  some  stars  dropp'd  from  the  sky, 
And  the  brown  bats  sweeping  by : 

Some  were  gray  and  thin  and  wiry, 
Wise  as  brief,  and  brief  as  bold ; 
Some  were  young  and  fierce  and  fiery, 
Some  were  stately  tall,  and  told 
Counsellings  like  kings  of  old. 

Flamed  the  council-fire  brighter, 
Flash'd  black  eyes  like  diamond  beads, 
When  a  woman  told  her  sorrows, 
While  a  warrior  told  his  deeds, 
And  a  widow  tore  her  weeds. 


THE  LAST  TASCHASTAS. 

Then  was  lit  the  pipe  of  council 
That  their  fathers  smoked  of  old, 
With  its  stem  of  manzinnetta, 
And  its  bowl  of  quartz  and  gold, 
And  traditions  manifold. 


Lo  !  from  lip  to  lip  in  silence 
Burn'd  it  round  the  circle  red, 
Like  an  evil  star  slow  passing 
(Sign  of  battles  and  blood  shed) 
Round  the  heavens  overhead. 

Then  the  silence  deep  was  broken 
By  the  thunder  rolling  far, 
As  gods  muttering  in  anger, 
Or  the  bloody  battle-car 
Of  a  Christian  king  at  war. 

"  'Tis  the  spirits  of  my  Fathers 
Mutt'ring  vengeance  in  the  skies  ; 
And  the  flashing  of  the  lightning 
Is  the  anger  of  their  eyes, 
Bidding  us  in  battle  rise," 


THE  LAST  TASCHASTAS.  113 

Cried  the  war-chief,  now  uprising, 
Naked  all  above  the  waist, 
While  a  belt  of  shells  and  silver 
Held  his  tamoos  to  its  place, 
And  the  war-paint  streak'd  his  face. 

Women  melted  from  the  council, 
Boys  crept  backward  out  of  sight, 
Till  alone  a  wall  of  warriors 
In  their  paint  and  battle-plight 
Sat  reflecting  back  the  light. 

"  O  my  fathers  in  the  storm-cloud ! ';  — 
(Red  arms  tossing  to  the  skies, 
While  the  massive  walls  of  granite 
Seem'd  to  shrink  to  half  their  size, 
And  to  mutter  strange  replies)  — 

"  Soon  we  come,  O  angry  Fathers, 
Down  the  darkness  you  have  cross'd  : 
Speak  for  hunting-grounds  there  for  us ; 
Those  you  left  us  we  have  lost  — 
Gone  like  blossoms  in  a  frost. 


ri4  THE  LAST  TASCHASTAS. 

"  Warriors ! "  (and  his  arms  fell  folded 
On  Ms  tawny  swelling  breast, 
While  his  voice,  now  low  and  plaintive 
As  the  waves  in  their  unrest, 
Touching  tenderness  confess'd,) 

"  Where  is  Wrotto,  wise  of  counsel. 
Yesterday  here  in  his  place  ? 
A  brave  lies  dead  down  in  the  valley, 
Last  brave  of  his  line  and  race, 
And  a  Ghost  sits  on  his  face. 

"  Where  the  boy  the  tender-hearted, 
With  his  mother  yestermorn  ? 
Lo !  a  wigwam-door  is  darken'd, 
And  a  mother  mourns  forlorn, 
With  her  long  locks  toss'd  and  torn. 

"  Once  like  pines  around  a  mountain 
Did  my  braves  in  council  stand ; 
Now  I  call  you  loud  like  thunder, 
And  you  come  at  my  command 
Faint  and  few,  with  feeble  hand. 


THE  LAST  TASCHASTAS.  115 

"  Lo !  our  daughters  have  been  gather'd 
From  among  us  by  the  foe, 
Like  the  lilies  they  once  gather'd 
In  the  spring-time  all  aglow 
From  the  banks  of  living  snow. 

"  Through  the  land  where  we  for  ages 

Laid  the  bravest,  dearest  dead, 

Grinds  the  savage  white-man's  ploughshare,     * 

Grinding  sires'  bones  for  bread  — 

We  shall  give  them  blood  instead. 

"  I  saw  white  skulls  in  a  furrow, 
And  around  the  cursed  share 
Clung  the  flesh  of  my  own  children ; 
And  my  mother's  tangled  hair 
Trail'd  along  the  furrow  there. 

"  O  my  mother  up  in  cloud-land ! " 
(Long  arms  lifting  like  the  spray) 
"  Whet  the  flint  heads  in  my  arrows, 
Make  my  heart  as  hard  as  they, 
Nerve  me  like  a  bear  at  bay ! 


u6  THE  LAST  TASCHASTAS. 

"  "Warriors !  braves !  1  cry  for  vengeance ! 
And  the  dim  ghosts  of  the  dead 
Unavenged  do  wail  and  shiver 
In  the  storm-cloud  overhead, 
And  shoot  arrows  battle-red." 


Then  he  ceased,  and  sat  among  them, 
With  his  long  locks  backward  strown  ; 
They  as  mute  as  men  of  marble, 
He  a  king  upon  a  throne, 
And  as  still  as  polish'd  stone. 

Hard  by  stood  the  war-chiefs  daughter, 
Taller  than  the  tassel'd  corn, 
Sweeter  than  the  kiss  of  morning, 
Sad  as  some  sweet  star  of  morn, 
Half  defiant,  half  forlorn. 

Robed  in  skins  of  striped  panther 
Lifting  loosely  to  the  air, 
With  a  face  a  shade  of  sorrow, 
And  black  eyes  that  said,  Beware ! 
Nestled  in  a  storm  of  hair ; 


THE  LAST  TASCHASTAS.  117 

With  her  striped  robes  around  her, 
Fasten'd  by  an  eagle's  beak, 
Stood  she  by  the  stately  chieftain, 
Proud  and  pure  as  Shasta's  peak, 
As  she  ventured  thus  to  speak : 


"  Must  the  tomahawk  of  battle 
Be  unburied  where  it  lies, 
O,  last  war-chief  of  Taschastas  ? 
Must  the  smoke  of  battle  rise 
Like  a  storm-cloud  in  the  skies  ? 

"  True,  some  wretch  has  laid  a  brother 
With  his  swift  feet  to  the  sun, 
But  because  one  bough  is  broken, 
Must  the  broad  oak  be  undone  ? 
All  the  red-wood  felFd  as  one  ? 

"  True,  the  braves  have  faded,  wasted 
Like  ripe  blossoms  in  the  rain, 
But  when  we  have  spent  the  arrows, 
Do  we  twang  the  string  in  vain, 
And  then  snap  the  bow  in  twain  ?" 


Ii8  THE  LAST  TASCHASTAS. 

Like  a  vessel  in  a  tempest 
Shook  the  warrior,  wild  and  grim, 
As  he  gazed  out  in  the  midnight, 
As  to  things  that  beckon'd  him, 
And  his  eyes  were  moist  and  dim. 

Then  he  turned,  and  to  his  bosom 
Battle  scarred,  and  strong  as  brass, 
Tenderly  the  warrior  press'd  her 
As  if  she  were  made  of  glass, 
Murmuring,  "  Alas !  alas ! 

"  Loua  Ellah !  Spotted  Lily ! 
Streaks  of  blood  shall  be  the  sign, 
On  their  curs'd  and  mystic  pages, 
Representing  me  and  mine  ! 
By  Tonatiu's  fiery  shrine ! 

"  When  the  grass  shall  grow  untrodden 
In  my  war-path,  and  the  plough 
Shall  be  grinding  through  this  canon 
Where  my  braves  are  gather'd  now, 
Still  shall  they  record  this  vow. 


THE  LAST  TASCHASTAS.  119 

"  War  and  vengeance !  rise,  my  warriors, 
Rise  and  shout  the  battle-sign, 
Ye  who  love  revenge  and  glory ! 
Ye  for  peace,  in  silence,  pine, 
And  no  more  be  braves  of  mine." 

Then  the  war-yell  roll'd  and  echo'd 
As  they  started  from  the  ground, 
Till  an  eagle  from  his  cedar 
Starting  answered  back  the  sound, 
And  flew  circling  round  and  round. 

"  Enough,  enough,  my  kingly  father ! " 
And  the  glory  of  her  eyes 
Flash'd  the  valor  and  the  passion 
That  may  sleep  but  never  dies, 
As  she  proudly  thus  replies  : 

"  Shall  the  red-wood  be  a  willow, 
Pliant  and  as  little  worth  ? 
It  shall  stand  the  king  of  forests, 
Or  its  fall  shall  shake  the  earth, 
Desolating  heart  and  hearth ! " 


*  *  * 

*  *  * 


x^s^, 

[UIU7ERSITY 

-.v.., 


120  THE  LAST  TASCHASTAS. 

PART  THIRD. 

***** 

FROM  cold  east  shore  to  warm  west  sea 

The  red  men  follow'd  the  red  sun, 

And,  faint  and  failing  fast  as  he, 

Felt,  sure  as  his,  their  race  was  run. 

This  ancient  tribe,  press'd  to  the  wave, 

There  fain  had  slept  a  patient  slave, 

And  died  out  as  red  embers  die 

From  flames  that  once  leapt  hot  and  high ; 

But,  roused  to  anger,  half  arose 

Around  that  chief,  a  sudden  flood, 

At  hot  and  hungry  cry  for  blood ; 

Half  drowsy  shook  a  feeble  hand, 

Then  sank  back  in  a  tame  repose, 

And  left  him  to  his  fate  and  foes, 

A  stately  wreck  upon  the  strand. 

His  was  no  common  mould  of  mind, 
But  made  for  action,  ill  or  good. 
Cast  in  another  land  and  scene, 
His  restless,  reckless  will  had  been 
A  curse  or  blessing  to  his  kind. 


THE  LAST  TASCHASTAS.  121 

His  eye  was  like  the  lightning's  wing, 
His  voice  was  like  a  rushing  flood ; 
He  boasted  Montezuma's  blood, 
And  when  a  captive  bound  he  stood 
His  presence  look'd  the  perfect  king. 

'Twas  held  at  first  that  he  should  die : 
I  never  knew  the  reason  why 
A  milder  counsel  did  prevail, 
Save  that  we  shrank  from,  blood,  and  save 
That  brave  men  do  respect  the  brave. 
Down  sea  sometimes  there  was  a  sail, 
And  far  at  sea,  they  said,  an  isle, 
And  he  was  sentenced  to  exile, 
In  open  boat  upon  the  sea 
To  go  the  instant,  on  the  main, 
And  never  under  penalty 
Of  death,  to  touch  the  shore  again. 
A  troop  of  bearded  buckskinn'd  men 
Bore  him  hard-hurried  to  the  wave, 
Placed  him  swift  in  the  boat ;  and  when 
Swift  pushing  to  the  bristled  sea, 
His  daughter  rush'd  down  suddenly, 
Threw  him  his  bow,  leapt  from  the  shore 


122  THE  LAST  TASCHASTAS. 

Into  the  boat  beside  the  brave, 
And  sat  her  down  and  seized  the  oar, 
And  never  question'd,  made  replies, 
Or  moved  her  lips,  or  raised  her  eyes. 

His  breast  was  like  a  gate  of  brass, 
His  brow  was  like  a  gather'd  storm ; 
There  is  no  chisell'd  stone  that  has 
So  stately  and  complete  a  form, 
In  sinew,  arm,  and  every  part, 
In  all  the  galleries  of  art. 

Gray,  bronzed,  and  naked  to  the  waist, 
He  stood  half  halting  in  the  prow. 
"With  quiver  bare  and  idle  bow. 
His  daughter  sat  with  her  sad  face 
Bent  on  the  wave,  with  her  two  hands 
Held  tightly  to  the  dripping  oar ; 
And  as  she  sat  her  dimpled  knee 
Bent  lithe  as  wand  of  willow  tree, 
So  round  and  full,  so  rich  and  free, 
That  no  one  would  have  ever  known 
That  it  had  either  joint  or  bone. 


THE  LAST  TASCHASTAS.  123 

The  warm  sea  fondled  with  the  shore, 
And  laid  his  white  face  on  the  sands. 

Her  eyes  were  black,  her  face  was  brown, 
Her  breasts  were  bare,  and  there  fell  down 
Such  wealth  of  hair,  it  almost  hid 
The  two,  in  its  rich  jetty  fold — 
Which  I  had  sometime  fain  forbid, 
They  were  so  richer,  fuller  far 
Than  any  polish'd  bronzes  are, 
And  richer  hued  than  any  gold. 
On  her  brown  arms  and  her  brown  hands 
Were  hoops  of  gold  and  golden  bands, 
Rough  hammer'd  from  the  virgin  ore, 
So  heavy,  they  could  hold  no  more. 

I  wonder  now,  I  wonder'd  then, 
That  men  who  fear'd  not  gods  nor  men 
Laid  no  rude  hand  at  all  on  her. 
I  think  she  had  a  dagger  slid 
Down  in  her  silver'd  wampum  belt ; 
It  might  have  been,  instead  of  hilt, 
A  flashing  diamond  hurry-hid 
That  I  beheld  —  I  could  not  know 


124  THE  LAST  TASCHASTAS. 

For  certain,  we  did  hasten  so ; 

And  I  know  now  less  sure  than  then. 

Deeds  strangle  memories  of  deeds, 

Red  blossoms  wither,  choked  with  weeds, 

And  floods  drown  memories  of  men. 

Some  things  have  happen'd  since  —  and  then 

This  happen'd  years  and  years  ago. 

"  Go,  go ! "  the  captain  cried,  and  smote 
With  sword  and  boot  the  swaying  boat, 
Until  it  quiver'd  as  at  sea 
And  brought  the  old  chief  to  his  knee. 
He  turn'd  his  face,  and  turning  rose 
With  hand  raised  fiercely  to  his  foes : 
"  Yes,  we  will  go,  last  of  my  race, 
Push'd  by  the  robbers  ruthlessly 
Into  the  hollows  of  the  sea, 
From  this  the  last,  last  resting-place. 
Traditions  of  my  Fathers  say 
A  feeble  few  reach'd  for  the  land, 
And  we  reach'd  them  a  welcome  hand, 
Of  old,  upon  another  shore ; 
Now  they  are  strong,  we  weak  as  they, 
And  they  have  driven  us  before 


THE  LAST  TASCHASTAS.  125 

Their  faces,  from  that  sea  to  this : 
Then  marvel  not  if  we  have  sped 
Sometime  an  arrow  as  we  fled, 
So  keener  than  a  serpent's  kiss." 

He  turn'd  a  time  unto  the  sun 
That  lay  half  hidden  in  the  sea, 
As  in  his  hollows  rock'd  asleep, 
All  trembled  and  breathed  heavily  ; 
Then  arch'd  his  arm,  as  you  have  done, 
For  sharp  masts  piercing  through  the  deep. 
No  shore  or  tall  ship  met  the  eye, 
Or  isle,  or  sail,  or  any  thing, 
Save  white  sea-gulls  on  dripping  wing, 
And  mobile  sea  and  molten  sky. 

"  Farewell !  —  push  seaward,  child  ! "  he  cried , 
And  quick  the  paddle-strokes  replied. 
Like  lightning  from  the  panther-skin 
That  bound  his  loins  round  about 
He  snatch'd  a  poison'd  arrow  out, 
That  like  a  snake  lay  hid  within, 
And  twanged  his  bow.     The  captain  fell 
Prone  on  his  face,  and  such  a  yell 


126  THE  LAST  TASCHASTAS. 

Of  triumph  from  that  savage  rose 
As  man  may  never  hear  again. 
He  stood  as  standing  on  the  main, 
The  topmost  main,  in  proud  repose, 
And  shook  his  clench'd  fist  at  his  foes, 
And  called,  and  cursed  them  every  one. 
He  heeded  not  the  shouts  and  shot 
That  follow'd  him,  but  grand  and  grim 
Stood  up  against  the  level  sun ; 
And,  standing  so,  seem'd  in  his  ire 
So  grander  than  a  leaping  fire. 

And  when  the  sun  had  .left  the  sea, 
That  laves  Abrep,  and  Blanco  laves, 
And  left  the  land  to  death  and  me, 
The  only  thing  that  I  could  see 
Was,  ever  as  the  light  boat  lay 
High  lifted  on  the  white-back'd  waves, 
A  head  as  gray  and  tossed  as  they. 


We  raised  the  dead,  and  from  his  hands 
Pick'd  out  the  shells  clutch'd  as  he  lay, 


THE  LAST  TASCHASTAS.  127 

And  two  by  two  bore  him  away, 
And  wiped  his  lips  of  blood  and  sands. 
We  bent  and  scoop' d  a  shallow  home, 
And  laid  him  warm-wet  in  his  blo.od, 
Just  as  the  lifted  tide  a-flood 
Came  charging  in  with  mouth  a-foam : 
And  as  we  turii'd,  the  sensate  thing 
Reach'd  up,  lick'd  out  its  foamy  tongue, 
Lick'd  out  its  tongue  and  tasted  blood  ; 
The  white  lips  to  the  red  earth  clung 
An  instant,  and  then  loosening 
All  hold  just  like  a  living  thing, 
Drew  back  sad-voiced  and  shuddering, 
All  stain'd  with  blood,  a  striped  flood. 


I  NA 


Sad  song  of  the  wind  in  the  mountains, 
And  the  sea-wave  of  grass  on  the  plain, 
That  breaks  in  bloom-foam  btj  the  fountains, 
And  forests  that  breaketh  again 
On  the  mountains,  as  breaJceth  a  main. 

Bold  thoughts  that  were  strong  as  the  grizzlies, 
But  now  weak  in  their  prison  of  words  ; 
Bright  fancies  that  flash' d  like  the  glaciers, 
Noiv  dimm'd  like  the  lustre  of  birds, 
And  butterflies  huddled  as  herds. 

Sad  symphony,  wild,  and  unmeasured, 
Weed  warp,  and  woof  woven  in  strouds, 
Strange  truths  that  a  stray  soul  has  treasured, 
Truths  seen  as  through  folding  of  shrouds  t 
Or  as  stars  through  the  rolling  of  clouds 


INA. 

SCENE   I. 

A    Hacienda   near   Tezcuco,   Mexico.      Young  DON  CARLOS 
alone,  looking  out  on  the  moonlit  mountains. 

DON  CARLOS. 

T30POCATAPETL  looms  lone  like  an  island 

Above   the   white   cloud-waves  that    break   up 

against  him ; 

Around  him  white  buttes  in  the  moonlight  are  flashing 
Like  silver  tents  pitch'd  in  the  fields  of  heaven ; 
While  standing  in  line,  in  their  snows  everlasting, 
Flash  peaks,  as  my  eyes  into  heaven  are  lifted, 
Like  milestones  that  lead  to  the  city  eternal. 

Ofttime  when  the  sun  and  the  sea  lay  together, 
Red-welded  as  one,  in  their  red  bed  of  lovers, 
Embracing  and  blushing  like  loves  newly  wedded, 
I  have  trod  on  the  trailing  crape  fringes  of  twilight, 
And   stood   there   and  listen'd,  and  lean'd  with   lips 
parted, 


132  INA. 

Till  lordly  peaks  wrapp'd  them,  as  chill  night  blew 

over, 

In  great  cloaks  of  sable,  like  proud  sombre  Spaniards, 
And  stalk' d  from  my  sight  down  the  dark  corridors, 
And  in  the  deep  stillness  —  so  still,  so  profoundly  — 
I  surely  have  heard  their  strong  footfalls  retreating. 

When  the  red-curt ain'd  West  has  bent  red  as  with 

weeping 

Low  over  the  couch  where  the  prone  day  lay  dying, 
I  have  stood  with  brow  lifted,  confronting  the  moun 
tains 

That  held  their  white  faces  of  snow  in  the  heavens, 
And  said,  "  It  is  theirs  to  array  them  so  purely, 
Because  of  their  nearness  to  the  temple  eternal ; " 
And  child-like  have  said,  "  They  are  fair  resting-places 
For  the  dear  weary  dead  on  their  way  up  to  heaven." 

But  my  soul  is  not  with  you  to-night,  mighty  moun 
tains  : 

It  is  held  to  the  levels  of  earth  by  an  angel 
Far  more  than  a  star,  earth-fallen  or  unfallen, 
Yet  fierce  in  her  follies  and  head-strong  and  stronger 
Than  streams  of  the  sea  running  in  with  the  billows. 


IN  A.  133 

Very  well.    Let  him  woo,  let  him  thrust  his  white 

whiskers 

And  lips  pale  and  purple  with  death  in  between  us ; 
Let  her  wed,  as  she  wills,  for  the  gold  of  the  gray- 
beard, 

And  to  give  in  my  hand  his.  league-lands  and  doub 
loons  : 

I  will  set  my  face  for  you,  O  mountains,  my  brothers, 
For  I  yet  have  my  honor,  my  conscience  and  freedom, 
My  fleet-footed  mustang  and  pistols  rich-silver'd  ; 
I  will  turn  as  the  earth  turns  her  back  on  the  sun, 
But  return  to  the  light  of  her  eyes  never  more, 
While  red  noons  have  a  night  and  white  seas  have  a 
shore. 

INA,  approaching,  offers  him  her  hand. 
INA. 

I  have  come,  dear  Don  Carlos,  to  say  you  farewell. 
I  shall  wed  with  Don  Castro  at  dawn  of  to-morrow, 
And  be  all  his  own  —  firm,  honest,  and  faithful. 
I  have  promised   this   thing ;    that  I   will  keep   my 

promise 

You  who  do  know  me  care  never  to  question. 
I  have  master' d  myself  to  say  this  thing  to  you 


134 

As  a  hunter  would  master  an  hungered  grizzly. 
Hear  me  :  be  strong,  then,  and  say  me  farewell. 
The  world  is  his  own  who  will  brave  its  bleak  hours. 
Dare,  then,  to  confront  the  cold  days  in  their  column ; 
As  they  march  down  upon  you,  stand,  hew  them  to 

pieces, 

One  after  one,  as  you  would  a  fierce  foeman, 
Till  not  one  abideth  between  two  true  bosoms. 

Here,  standing  here,  in  the  vines  by  the  twilight, 
While  the  fair  moon  was  resting  her  face  pure  and 

pallid 

On  the  broad  breast  of  heaven  as  one  that  is  weary, 
And  her  yellow  hair  trail'd  bridal  veils  down  upon  us, 
And    the    merry   stars    play'd   hide-and-seek    in    the 

heaven, 
And  danced  there  and  dangled  like  to  golden  threads 

tangled, 

He  said  to  me  this :  "  I  am  old  and  am  heirless, 
And  should  I  die  so.  by  Mejico's  statutes 
My  gold  and  my  broad  reach  of  lands  do  go  forfeit 
To  the  State,  in  despite  of  my  will  or  my  wishes ; 
But  you,  my  true  wife,  would  be  left  my  fair  widow, 
A  queen  in  your  wealth  to  enrich  a  young  lover." 


INA.  135 

Then  I  told  to  him  all  —  all  my  love  and  my  struggles  ; 
And  he  called  me  most  brave,  and  most  true,  and  most 

noble, 

And  said  that  he  knew  all  my  yearnings  already, 
And  only  sought  thus  with  his  wealth  to  endow  mo. 
So  then  I  promised,  and  shall  keep  my  promise 
True  as  the  sun  keeps  his  course  in  the  heaven, 
As  stainless  and  pure,  yet  as  warm  as  the  summer. 

Let  us  part  as  true  friends,  with  a  hope  all  unutter'd  ; 
Without  strife  or  a  word,  or  an  ill  will  between  us. 
Turn  you  to  the  right  or  the  left  like  to  Abram  : 
The  world  is  before  us,  come  cloud,  or  come  sky  ; 
Give  your  hand  here  in  mine  and  say  bravely,  Good-by. 

[DON  CARLOS  with  a  laugli  of  scorn  flies  from  the  verandah. 
mounts  his  steed,  and  disappears. 


(looking  out  into  the  night,  after  a  long  silence}. 

How  doleful  the  night-hawk  screams  high   in   the 

heavens, 

How  dismally  gibbers  the  gray  coyote  ! 
Afar  to  the  south  now  the  red-tongued  thunder, 
Mine  equal  brother,  my  soul's  own  companion, 
Talks  low  in  his  sleep,  like  a  giant  deep-troubled  ; 


136  IN  A. 

Talks  fierce  in  accord  with  my  own  stormy  spirit. 
But  beyond  him  the  supple  California  lion 
Has  aroused  him  up  in  a  dangerous  rivalry  — 
The  beast,  I  could  beard  him  alone  in  his  lair, 
And  toy  with  his  mane,  though  it  toss'd  like  a  fire. 

SCENE   II. 

A  spur  of  Mount  Hood  overlooking  the  Willamette  river. 
LAMONTE,  a  mountaineer,  pitches  his  solitary  camp  for  the 
night,  and  contemplates  the  scene. 

LAMONTE. 

\  FLUSHED  and  weary  messenger  a-west 

Is  standing  at  the  half-closed  door  of  day, 
As  he  would  say,  Good-night ;  and  now  his  bright 
Red  cap  he  tips  to  me  and  turns  his  face. 
Were  it  an  unholy  thing  to  say,  An  angel 
Beside  the  door  stood  with  uplifted  seal  ? 
Behold  the  door  seal'd  with  that  blood-red  seal 
Now  burning,  spreading  o'er  the  mighty  West. 
Never  again  shall  the  dead  day  arise 
Therefrom,  but  must  be  born  and  come  anew. 

The  tawny,  solemn  Nigtt,  child  of  the  East, 
Her  mournful  robes  trails  on  the  distant  woods, 


IN  A.  137 

And  comes  this  way  with  firm  and  stately  step. 
Afront,  and  very  high,  she  wears  her  shining 
Breastplate  of  silver,  and  on  her  dark  brow 
The  radiant  Venus  burns  like  flashing  wit. 
Behold  !  how  in  her  gorgeous  flow  of  hair 
Glitter  a  million  mellow  yellow  gems, 
Spilling  their  molten  gold  on  the  dewy  grass. 
Throned  on  the  boundless  plain,  and  gazing  down 
Calmly  upon  the  red-seal'd  tomb  of  day, 
Resting  her  form  against  the  Rocky  Mountains, 
She  rules  with  silent  power  a  peaceful  world. 

'Tis  midnight  now.     The  bent  and  broken  moon, 
Battered  and  black,  as  from  a  thousand  battles, 
Hangs  silent  on  the  purple  walls 'of  heaven. 
The  angel  warrior,  guard  of  the  gates  eternal, 
In  battle-harness  girt,  sleeps  on  the  field ; 
But  when  to-morrow  comes,  when  wicked  men 
That  fret  the  patient  earth  are  all  astir, 
He  will  resume  his  shield,  and,  facing  earthward, 
The  gates  of  heaven  guard  from  sins  of  earth. 

'Tis  morn.     Behold  the  kingly  Day  now  leaps 
The  eastern  wall  of  earth  with  sword  in  hand. 


138  IN  A. 

Clad  in  a  flowing  robe  of  mellow  light, 
Like  to  a  king  that  has  regain'd  his  throne, 
He  warms  his  drooping  subjects  into  joy, 
That  rise  rejoiced  to  do  him  fealty, 
And  rules  with  pomp  the  universal  world. 


Far,  far  down  in  yon  narrow  spruce-lined  canon 
Is  the  storm-hid  abysm  of  ghostly  darkness. 
I  see  him  now,  as  down  and  down  I  peer, 
Crouch  down,  and  shrink,  and  creep  still  up  the  gorge, 
Like  some  great  beast  that  would  conceal  its  form 
In  nervous  terror  from  the  gaze  of  man. 
The  Willamette  flashes  back  afar, 
And  down  his  path  of  palms  goes  ever  on, 
An  endless  caravan  to  some  fair  Mecca. 
On  either  side  he  spreads  his  yellow  vales 
With  strips  of  foamy  streams  and  fringe  of  green, 
As  a  merchant  of  the  storied  East  unfolds 
His  gorgeous  wealth  of  green  and  yellow  silks. 

'Tis  harvest  time,  and  valiant  Nature  bears 
Upon  earth's  broad  and  never-failing  bosom 
A  yellow  shield  of  bright  and  gleaming  gold, 


INA.  139 

Wrought  out  by  patient  husbandman  to  guard 
His  sturdy  race  against  the  hosts  of  famine. 

Lifting  the  purple  curtains  of  the  gods 
With  flashing  helmets  that  defy  the  clouds, 
And  make  fierce  fellowship  with  undimm'd  stars, — 
Mount  Hood !  and  fair  Saint  Helens !  snows  eternal 
As  the  sun,  —  from  this  my  mossy  mountain  throne, 
With  lifted  and  uncover'd  head,  I  greet  ye ! 

Soft  snowy  breasts  on  Nature's  swelling  bosom  — 
Nature  benign  and  bounteous  —  let  me  draw 
Pure  inspiration  from  ye,  as  a  child 
Draws  nurture  from  a  loving  mother's  breast, 
And  be  your  child,  your  yearning,  wayward  child, 
And,  sitting  here  as  on  a  parent's  knee, 
Gaze  wonder-full  into  the  face  of  Nature. 

Dox  CARLOS  ascends  the  mountain  gesticulating  and  talking  to 
himself. 

DON  CAKLOS. 

Oh  for  a  name  that  black-eyed  maids  would  sigh 
And  lean  with  parted  lips  at  mention  of, 
That  I  should  seem  so  tall  in  the  minds  of  men 


140  IN  A. 

That  I  might  walk  beneath  the  arch  of  Heaven, 

And  pluck  the  ripe  red  stars  as  I  pass'd  on, 

As  favour'd  guests  do  pluck  the  purple  grapes 

That  hang  above  the  humble  entrance-way 

Of  a  palm-thatch'd  mountain-inn  of  Mexico. 

Oh,  I  would  give  the  green  leaves  of  my  life 

For  something  grand  and  real  —  undream' d  deeds ! 

To  wear  a  mantle,  broad  and  richly  jewell'd 

As  purple  heaven  fringed  with  gold  at  sunset ; 

To  wear  a  crown  as  dazzling  as  the  sun, 

And,  holding  up  a  sceptre  lightning-charged, 

Stride  out  among  the  stars  as  I  have  strode 

A  barefoot  boy  among  the  buttercups. 

Alas  !  I  am  so  restless.     There  is  that 

Within  me  doth  rebel  and  rise  against 

The  all  I  am  and  half  I  see  in  others ; 

And  were 't  not  for  contempt  of  coward  act 

Of  flying  all  defeated  from  the  world, 

As  if  I  feared  and  dared  not  face  its  ills, 

I  should  ere  this  have  known,  known  more  or  less 

Than  any  flesh  that  frets  this  sullen  earth. 

I  know  not  where  such  thoughts  will  lead  me  to : 

I  have  had  a  fear  that  they  would  drive  me  mad, 

And  then  have  flatter'd  my  weak  self,  and  said 


TNA.  141 

The  soul 's  outgrown  the  body  —  yea,  the  soul 
Aspires  to  the  stars,  and  in  its  struggles 
Does  make  the  dull  flesh  quiver  like  an  aspen. 

LAMONTE. 

What  waif  is  this  cast  here  upon  my  shore, 
From  seas  of  subtle  and  uncertain  men  ? 

DON  CARLOS. 

Subtle  and  selfish  men  !  —  ah,  that 's  the  term ! 
And  if  you  be  but  earnest  in  you*  spleen, 
And  the  other  sex  across  man's  shoulders,  curse, 
I'll  stand  beside  you  on  this  crag  and  curse 
And  hurl  my  clench'd  fists  down  upon  their  heads, 
Till  I  am  hoarse  as  yonder  cataract. 

LAMONTE. 

Why,  no,  my  friend,  I'll  not  consent  to  that. 
No  true  man  yet  has  ever  cursed  a  woman  ; 
And  I  —  I  do  not  hate  my  fellow  man. 
For  man  by  nature  bears  within  himself 
Nobility  that  makes  him  half  a  god ; 
But  as  in  somewise  he  hath  made  himself, 


142  IN  A. 

His  universal  thirst  for  gold  and  pomp, 

And  purchased  fleeting  fame  and  bubble  honors, 

Forgetting  good,  neglecting  helpless  age, 

And  rushing  rough-shod  over  lowly  merit, 

I  hold  him  but  a  sorry  worm  indeed ; 

And  so  have  turn'd  me  quietly  aside 

To  know  the  majesty  of  peaceful  woods. 

There  is  a  freshness  there,  a  perfect  fairness, 

A  candor  and  unlanguaged  harmony 

That  wins  you,  and  you  worship  unawares. 

DON  CARLOS  (as  if  alone). 

The  fabled  fount  of  youth  led  many  fools, 
Zealous  in  its  pursuit,  to  hapless  death ; 
And  yet  this  thirst  for  fame,  this  hot  ambition, 
This  soft-toned  syren-tongue,  enchanting  Fame, 
Doth  lead  me  headlong  on  to  equal  folly, 
Like  to  a  wild  bird  charm'd  by  shining  coils 
And  swift  mesmeric  glare  of  deadly  snake : 
I  would  not  break  the  charm,  but  win  a  world 
Or  die  with  curses  blistering  my  lips. 

LAMONTE. 
You  startle  me  !     I  am  unused  to  hear 


INA.  143 

Men  talk  these  fierce  and  bitter  thoughts ;  and  yet 
In  closed  recesses  of  my  soul  was  once 
A  dark  and  gloomy  chamber  where  they  dwelt. 
Give  up  ambition  —  yea,  crush  out  such  thoughts 
As  you  would  crush  from  hearth  a  scorpion-brood  : 
For,  mark  rne  well,  they  '11  get  the  mastery, 
And  drive  you  on  to  death —  or  worse,  across 
A  thousand  ruin'd  homes  and  broken  hearts. 


DON  CARLOS. 

Give  up  ambition  !     Oh,  rather  than  die, 
And  glide  a  lonely,  nameless,  shivering  ghost 
Down  the  dark  tide  of  utter  nothingness, 
I  'd  write  a  name  in  blood  and  orphans'  tears, 
The  temple-burner  wiser  was  than  kings. 
Yet  violence  is  not  my  inner  nature : 
I  would  embalm  my  name  in  noblest  good, 
Would  die  a  death  of  lofty  self-denial, 
If  but  the  world  beheld  the  sacrifice 
And  men  took  note  and  told  my  fame  to  her, 
That  she  might  weep  for  spite  and  envy  me 
My  sweet  applause  and  dignity  of  death. 
I  'd  write  a  song  eternal  as  the  sun, 


144  IN  A. 

As  chaste  and  beautiful  as  is  the  moon, 

That  men  might  read  even  as  they  read  the  stars 

In  their  enamell'd  setting  in  the  ring 

Above,  the  crescent  blue,  in  deep  delight ; 

Denied  the  art  and  opportunity, 

I  'd  leap  strong  arm'd  upon  the  centre  stage 

Of  this  uncertain,  accidental  life, 

Snatch  up  the  slacken' d  reins,  and  ruthless  guide 

The  idle  energies  of  the  monster  mob, 

Reckless  of  every  cost  or  pain  to  man, 

To  my  grand  honor,  glory  and  renown, 

While  he  should  wonder,  worship,  call  me  wise. 

LAMONTE. 
But  would  you  dare  the  curse  of  man  and  — 


DON  CAELOS. 

Dare ! 

I  'd  dare  the  curses  of  the  sceptred  kings ! 
I  'd  build  a  pyramid  of  the  whitest  skulls, 
And  step  therefrom  unto  the  spotted  moon, 
And  thence  to  stars,  thence  to  the  central  suns ; 
Then  with  one  grand  and  mighty  leap  would  land 


INA.  145 

Unhindered  on  the  shores  of  the  gods  of  old, 
And,  sword  in  hand,  unbared  and  unabash'd,    * 
Would  stand  forth  in  the  presence  of  the  God 
Of  gods;  there,  on  the  Jewell' d  inner-side 
The  walls  of  heaven,  carve  with  a  Damascus 
Steel,  highest  up,  a  grand  and  titled  name 
That  time  nor  tide  could  touch  or  tarnish  ever. 
Yea,  any  thing  on  earth,  in  hell  or  heaven, 
Rather  than  lie  a  nameless  clod  forgot, 
Letting  stern  Time  in  triumph  forward  tramp 
Above  my  tombless  and  neglected  dust. 

LAMONTE. 

Seek  not  to  crop  above  the  heads  of  men 
To  be  a  better  mark  for  envy's  shafts. 
Come  to  my  peaceful  home,  and  leave  behind 
These  stormy  thoughts  and  daring  aspirations. 
It  is  revenge  that  shows  the  savage  heart, 
And  earthly  power 's  a  thing  comparative. 
Is  not  a  petty  chief  of  some  lone  isle, 
With  half-a-dozen  nude  and  starving  subjects, 
As  much  a  king  as  he  the  Czar  of  Rusk  ? 
In  yonder  sweet  retreat  and  balmy  place 

10 


I46  INA. 

I  '11  abdicate,  and  you  be  chief  indeed. 

There  you  will  reign  and  tell  me  of  the  world, 

Its  life  and  lights,  its  sins  and  sickly  shadows. 

The  pheasant  will  reveille  beat  at  morn, 

And  rouse  us  to  the  battle  of  the  day. 

My  swarthy  subjects  will  in  circle  sit, 

And,  gazing  on  your  kingly  presence,  deem 

You  great  indeed,  and  call  you  chief  of  chiefs ; 

And,  knowing  no  one  greater  than  yourself 

In  all  the  leafy  borders  of  your  realm, 

'Gainst  what  can  pride  or  poor  ambition  chafe  ? 

'Twill  be  a  kingdom  without  king,  save  you, 
Broader  than  that  the  cruel  Cortes  won, 
With  subjects  truer  than  he  ever  knew, 
That  know  no  law  but  only  Nature's  law, 
And  no  religion  know  but  that  of  love. 
There  truth  and  beauty  are,  for  there  is  Nature, 
Serene  and  simple.     She  will  be  our  priestess, 
And  in  her  calm  and  uncomplaining  face 
We  will  read  well  her  rubric  and  be  wise. 

A  glass-like  lake  lies  on  this  mountain-top ; 
You  bend  you  o'er,  and,  resting  on  your  palms, 


INA.     f  147 

Gaze  down  and  down  full  fifty  fathoms  deep, 
And  see  the  speckled  mountain-trout  that  sport, 
All  gold  and  silver-sheathed  and  scaled,  above 
Rich  palaces,  brown,  marble-built  and  massive, 
Hewn  out  and  built  or  ever  man  had  named 
The  stars  —  when  mighty  Nimrod  kept  the  chase. 

Black,  quilless  pines,  perfect  as  those  ashore  — 
Proportion' d  mighty,  perfectly  erect  — 
Stand  dark  and  sullen  in  the  silent  courts. 
You  cast  a  pebble  in,  a  nut  in  size, 
And  watch  it  wind  and  wind  a  weary  time, 
Then  see  it  plain  as  if  'twas  in  your  hand. 
Could  you  believe  a  flood  could  be  so  pure, 
So  mirror-like,  so  strangely  beautiful  ? 
Some  tall  pines  press  up  to  the  water's  edge 
And  droop  adown  their  plumed  and  sable  heads, 
And  weep  above  their  buried  comrades  still 
All  night  the  dewy  tears  of  Nature. 

A  league  across,  the  pines  have  broken  rank 
And  stand  in  small  platoons,  or  stand  alone ; 
While  far  across  the  rolling  sea-like  meads 
Do  dash  and  wheel  the  spotted  Indian  steeds. 


148  .     IN  A. 

The  warriors  shout  and  gallop  up  and  down, 

And  lovely  maids  in  beaded  moccasons, 

Furs  thick  with  red  and  yellow  feathers  fringed, 

As  tall  and  straight  as  water  tules  are, 

Go  forth  in  dusky  beauty  in  their  walk 

Beneath  the  circling  shadows  of  the  pines, 

Or  bathe  and  dream  along  the  borders  of  the  lake. 

And  far  beyond,  where  pines  crowd  thick  and  tall, 
And  waters  dwindle  to  a  narrow  wedge, 
The  glad  lake  opes  her  pretty  gushing  mouth, 
And  down  a  foaming  cataract  of  silver 
Pours  all  her  ceaseless  song  and  melody  — 
The  far  source  of  the  lovely  Willamette. 

At  night,  o'erspread  by  the  rich,  purple  robe, 
The  deep  imperial  Tyrian  hue  that  folds 
The  invisible  form  of  the  Eternal  God, 
You  will  see  the  sentry  stars  come  marching  forth 
And  take  their  posts  upon  the  field  above, 
Around  the  great  white  tent  where  sleeps  their  chief; 
You  will  hear  the  kakea  singing  in  a  dream 
The  wildest,  sweetest  song  a  soul  can  drink. 
And  when  the  tent  is  folded  up,  and  all 


INA.  149 

The  golden-fringed  red  sentries  faced  about 

To  let  the  pompous  day-king  pass  along, 

We  two  will  stand  upon  a  sloping  hill, 

Where  white-lipped  springs  come  leaping,  laughing  up, 

With  water  spouting  forth  in  merry  song 

Like  bridled  mirth  from  out  a  school-girl's  throat 

And  look  far  down  the  bending  Willamette, 

And  in  his  thousand  graceful  curves  and  strokes 

And  strange  meanderings,  men  misunderstand, 

Read  the  unutterable  name  of  GOD. 

DON  CARLOS. 

Why,  truly  now,  this  fierce  and  broken  land, 
Seen  through  your  eyes,  assumes  a  fairer  shape. 
Lead  up,  for  you  are  nearer  God  than  I. 

SCENE  III. 

INA,  in  black,  alone  by  the  sea.    Midnight. 
INA. 

T T7EEP ?    Me  to  weep ?    How  I  laugh  to  think 
^V  of  it! 

I  lift  my  dark  brow  to  the  breath  of  the  ocean, 
Soft  kissing  me  now  like  the  lips  of  my  mother, 


150  INA. 

And  laugh  low  and  long  as  I  crush  the  brown  grasses, 
To  think  I  should  weep !    Why,  I  never  wept  —  never, 
N"ot  even  in  punishments  dealt  me  in  childhood ! 
Yea,  all  of  my  wrongs  and  my  bitterness  buried 
In  my  brave  baby  heart,  all  alone  and  unfriended. 
And  I  pitied,  with  proud  and  disdainfulest  pity, 
The  weak  who  would  weep,  and  I  laugh'd  at  the  folly 
Of  those  who  could  laugh  and  make  merry  with  play 
things  : 
Then  I  tuck'd  down  my  chin  and  went  under  the 

lindens, 
And  made  me  companions  of  grave  horned  cattle. 


No !  I  will  not  weep  now  over  that  I  desired. 
Desired  ?    Yes :  I  to  myself  dare  confess  it, 
Ah,  too,  to  the  world  should  it  question  too  closely, 
And  bathe  me  and  sport  in  a  deep  sea  of  candor. 
Bah  !     Cowards  deceive,  and  I  know  not  what  fear  is. 
Men  lie,  who  lack  courage  to  tell  truth  —  the  cowards ! 

Like  Lucifer  dower'd  with  pride  and  wild  beauty, 
With  poverty  cursed  and  the  fiercest  ambition, 
I  stood  all  alone  by  my  sweet  child-mother ; 


INA.  151 

When  the  kind  dotard  came  and  did  bend  him  for 
ward, 

Fast  thrusting  his  beard  by  my  boy  Don  Carlos. 

And  so  I  did  wed  him.  Would  you  know  now  the 
reason  ? 

I  endured  the  cold  frost  for  the  springtime  to  fol 
low, 

Did  wed  to  the  one  for  the  love  of  the  other, 

And  to  get  for  him  gold,  gave  my  whole  fair  body. 


Oh,  alone  and  unlike  to  all  other  things  earthly 
Was  my  brave  boy-lover ;  as  an  isle  'mid  the  oceans 
Of  men,  so  alike  as  are  drops  of  water. 
He  did  win  my  heart  by  his  great  defiance 
Of  men  and  manners,  and  his  thoughts  unbridled. 
But  now  made  a  queen,  after  all  my  struggles, 
I  shall  seek  him  out  and  surprise  and  enrich  him ; 
And  seek  him  with  songs  as  a  sweet  boy-poet. 
I  did  bear  my  burden  long,  loyal  and  faithful, 
Even  down  to  the  end,  and  did  make  no  murmur : 
But  now  he  is  dead  and  I  dare  joy  at  it. 
And  am  I  then  the  first  that  has  joy'd  thus  fiercely, 
And  held  Death's  mantle  while  he  did  his  office  ? 


152  INA. 

What  now  if  the  odds  were  but  this  wild  courage, 
That  does  dare  shape  thought  into  plainest  language ! 


Let  the  world  be  deceived:  it  insists  upon  it; 
Let  it  bundle  me  round  in  its  black  woe-garments ; 
But  I,  self  with  self —  my  free  soul  fearless  — 
Am  as  frank  as  the  sun,  nor  the  toss  of  a  copper 
Care  I  if  the  world  call  it  good  or  evil. 
I  am  glad  to-night,  and  in  new-born  freedom 
Forget  all  earth  with  my  old  companions,  — 
The  moon  and  the  stars  and  the  moon-clad  ocean. 
I  am  face  to  face  with  the  stars  that  know  me, 
And  gaze  as  I  gazed  in  the  eyes  of  my  mother, 
Forgetting  the  city  and  the  coarse  things  in  it ; 
For  there's  naught  but  God  in  the  shape  of  mortal, 
Save  one  —  my  wandering,  wild  boy-lover  — 
That  I  do  esteem  worth  a  stale  banana. 


The  air  hangs  heavy  and  is  warm  on  my  shoulder, 
And  is  thick  with  odors  of  balm  and  blossom ; 
The  great  bay  sleeps  with  the  ships  on  her  bosom. 
Through  the  Golden  Gate,  to  the  left-hand  yonder, 


INA.  153 

The  white  sea  lies  in  a  deep  sleep,  snoring, 
The  father  of  melody,  the  mother  of  measure, 
Lifting  his  breast  to  the  moon,  deep  breathing.  — 
Let  me  sing  by  the  sea  a  song  as  he  slumbers, 
A  song  to  the  air  of  the  sweetest  of  singers. 

[Sings. 

O  tempest-toss'd  sea  of  white  bosoms, 

O  breasts  with  demands  and  desires, 

O  hearts  fill'd  of  fevers,  of  fires, 

Reaching  forth  from  the  tangible  blossoms, 

Reaching  far  for  impossible  things ! 

Beat  not,  O  break  not  your  warm  wings 

On  the  cruel  cold  bars  any  more. 

'Lo  !   the  sea,  the  great  sea  has  his  shore, 

And  lies  in  his  limit ;  the  moon 

Has  her  night,  and  the  sun  has  his  noon. 


What  a  wonderful  world  truly  this  is ! 
How  barren  of  wisdom  and  worth ! 
How  populous  full  is  the  earth 
Of  the  fools  that  taste  not  of  its  blisses ! 
Then  despise  not  the  glories  before  you^ 


154 

With  your  feet  on  the  things  that  are  real : 
Take  the  tangible  loves  that  adore  you, 
Touch  the  forms  that  are  flesh  and  can  feel. 

Leaves  fade,  and  the  frosts  are  before  us ; 
Leaves  fall,  and  the  winter  winds  are  ; 
Loves  fail !     Let  us  cross  and  deplore  us  ; 
Loves  die !     Lift  your  hands  as  at  war. 
Lift  your  hands  to  the  world  and  deny  it ; 
Lift  your  voice,  cry  aloud  and  deny ; 
Cry  aloud,  « 'Tis  a  lie  ! "  and  belie  it 
With  lives  made  a  beautiful  lie. 


SCENE  IV. 

A  Wood  by  a  rivulet  on  a  spur  of  Mount  Hood,  overlooking 
the  Columbia.  LAMONTE  and  DON  CARLOS,  on  their  way  to 
the  camp,  have  met  with  other  hunters,  and  are  reposing  under 
the  shadow  of  the  forest.  Some  deer  are  observed  descending 
to  the  brook,  and  one  of  the  party  seizes  his  rifle. 


N 


CARLOS. 


AY,  then,  my  friend,  don't  strike  them  from  your 
covert. 


INA.  155 

Strike  like  a  serpent  in  the  grass  conceal'd  ? 

What,  steal  into  their  homes,  and,  when  athirst 

And  unsuspecting,  they  come  down  in  couples 

And  dip  their  muzzles  in  the  mossy  brink, 

Then  shoot  them  down  without  a  chance  to  fly  — 

The  only  means  that  God  has  given  them, 

Poor,  unarm'd  mutes,  to  baffle  cruel  man  ! 

Ah,  now  I  see  you  had  not  thought  of  this! 

The  hare  is  fleet,  and  quick  at  sight  and  sound, 

His  coat  is  changed  with  color  of  the  fields  ; 

Yon  deer  turn  brown  when  forest-leaves  are  brown  ; 

The  dog  has  teeth,  the  cat  has  teeth  and  claws, 

And  man  has  craft  and  art  and  sinewy  arms  : 

All  things  that  live  have  some  means  of  defence  .  .  . 

LTJCUS. 
Ay,  all  —  save  only  lovely,  helpless  woman. 


CARLOS. 
Nay,  woman  has  her  tongue  —  arm'd  to  the  teeth. 

Lucus. 

Thou  Timon,  what  can  'scape  your  bitterness  ? 
But  for  this  sweet  repose  and  peace  of  Nature, 


156  IN  A. 

Upon  whose  breast  we  here  recline  and  dream, 
Why,  you  might  lift  your  voice  and  rail  at  her ! 


CAKLOS. 

Oh,  I  am  out  of  patience  with  your  faith  ! 
What !   Nature  quiet,  peaceful,  uncomplaining  ? 
I  Ve  seen  her  fretted  like  a  lion  caged, 
Chafe  like  a  peevish  woman  cross' d  and  churl'd, 
Tramping  and  foaming  like  a  whelpless  bear ; 
Have  seen  her  weep  till  earth  was  wet  with  tears, 
Then  turn  all  smiles  —  a  jade  that  won  her  point; 
Have  seen  her  tear  the  hoary  hair  of  Ocean, 
While  he,  himself  full  half  a  world,  would  moan 
And  roll  and  toss  his  clumsy  hands  all  day 
To  earth  like  some  great  helpless  babe,  that  lay 
Rude-rock'd  and  cradled  by  an  unseen  nurse, 
Then  stain  her  snowy  hem  with  salt-sea  tears ; 
And  when  the  peaceful,  mellow  moon  came  forth, 
To  walk  and  meditate  among  the  yellow 
Blooms  that  make  blest  the  upper  purple  fields, 
This  wroth  dyspeptic  sea  ran  after  her 
With  all  his  soul,  as  if  to  pour  himself, 
All  sick  mid  helpless,  in  her  snowy  lap. 


INA.  157 

Content !     Oh,  she  has  crack'd  the  ribs  of  earth 
And  made  her  shake  poor  trembling  man  from  off 
Her  back,  even  as  a  grizzly  shakes  the  hounds ; 
She  has  upheaved  her  rocky  spine  against 
The  flowing  robes  of  the  Eternal  God. 
Nature  is  not  content.     Ha !  I  have  heard  her 
Rushing  at  night  swift  down  the  streaming  plain, 
And,  when  the  storm  was  thick  and  deep  at  night, 
Have  seen  her  press  her  face  in  blacken'd  mask 
Against  my  window-pane,  and  sob,  and  weep, 
And  wail,  until  the  great  round  tears  ran  down ; 
And  then,  as  if  in  savage  desperation, 
Seize  violent  hold  and  shake  the  sash  and  frame 
Until  they  quailed  and  quaked  like  aspen-leaf. 
I  did  unbar  the  window  for  her  once, 
This  wild-lamenting,  fretful,  childish  Nature  : 
She,  like  a  wood-rear'd  girl,  rush'd  reckless  in 
And  hid  her  trembling  in  a  darken'd  corner. 
Peer  down  there,  half  a  league  by  cliff  and  bough, 
Into  the  river's  white  complaining  face, 
And  see  his  gray  hair  trail'd  in  shifting  sands : 
There  comes  a  wail  of  terror  aud  despair 
Up  from  his  white  and  trembling  lips  a-foam, 
While  he  uplifts  his  thin  white  palms  to  pines 


158  INA. 

That  bend  dark-brow'd  and  sad  as  o'er  a  tomb. 
No  !  'tis  a  pretty  thought  and  pretty  theme 
That  Nature  reigns  in  majesty  serene  : 
But  lift  the  skirts  of  Isis,  and  be  wise. 

Lucus. 

Heartless  ambition  and  unholy  pride  ! 
Hatred  of  man  and  strange  contempt  of  woman  ! 
At  war  with  all,  and  your  own  enemy  ! 
While  man  is  man,  do  not  attempt  to  shine 
Too  bright  :  consult  your  peace/  beware  of  pride  ; 
For  malice  shoots  alone  at  shining  marks. 
Beware  of  pride.     I  once  did  hear  a  learn'd 
Man  say,  "By  pride  the  angels  fell  from  heaven." 


CARLOS. 
By  pride  they  reach'd  a  place  from  which  to  fall. 

Lucus. 

And  were  they  better,  happier,  having  thus 
Ascended,  then  prostrate  to  fall  so  far  ? 

DON  CARLOS. 
Yes  !    Let  me  only  win  the  love  I  woo, 


INA.  159 

Enjoy  her  but  one  brief  hour,  then  lose  all, 
I  will  be  winner  that  one  gracious  hour ; 
And  in  my  memory  then  will  I  possess 
A  wall'd  spring  hung  about  with  cooling  palms, 
Where  weary  recollection  traversing 
The  barren  desert  of  my  life,  might  pause 
And  bathe  herself,  and,  resting,  rise  refresh'd. 
There  be  some  men  with  hope  so  full  and  strong, 
Their  souls  feed  on  the  future  —  a  green  field  — 
But  mine  will  not  go  on,  but  backward  turns 
As  if  for  something  lost  or  left  behind  : 
Goes  back  against  my  will,  an  endless  lane, 
A  stray  sheep  from  the  flock  that  ever  keeps 
The  dusty  centre  of  the  unwater'd  way, 
And  looks  up  weary  at  the  fasten'd  gates 
That  lead  to  cooling  springs  and  verdant  banks, 
But  closed  against  me  when  at  first  I  pass'd. 

Lucus. 

There  was  one  once  of  nature  like  to  this : 
He  stood  a  barehead  boy  upon  a  cliff 
Pine-crown'd,  that  hung  high  o'er  a  bleak  north  sea 
His  long  hair  stream'd  and  flash'd  like  yellow  silk, 
His  sea-blue  eyes  lay  deep  and  still  as  lakes 


160  INA. 

O'erliung  by  mountains  arched  in  virgin  snow ; 

And  far  astray,  and  friendless  and  alone, 

A  tropic  bird  blown  through  the  north  frost-wind, 

He  stood  above  the  sea  in  the  cold  white  moon, 

His  thin  face  lifted  to  the  flashing  stars, 

And  talk'd  familiarly  full  face  to  face 

With  the  Eternal  God,  in  solemn  night, 

Confronting  Him  with  free  and  flippant  air 

As  one  confronts  a  merchant  o'er  his  counter, 

And  in  his  vehement  blasphemy  did  say  : 

"God,  put  aside  this  world  —  show  me  another! 

God,  this  world  is  a  cheat  —  hand  down  another ! 

I  will  not  buy  —  not  have  it  as  a  gift. 

Put  it  aside  and  hand  me  down  another  — 

Another,  and  another,  still  another, 

Till  I  have  tried  the  fairest  world  that  hangs 

Upon  the  walls  and  broad  dome  of  your  shop, 

The  finest  one  that  has  come  from  your  hand ; 

For  I  am  proud  of  soul  and  regal  born, 

And  will  not  have  a  cheap  and  cheating  world." 


DON  CARLOS. 
The  noble  youth !    So  God  gave  him  another  ? 


INA.  161 

Lucus. 

What,  he,  the  poor  blasphemous  and  crazy  beggar! 
So  must  you  speak,  or  else  the  world  will  hiss  you, 
Of  these  brave  spirits  God  tries  in  His  fire, 
Then  takes  unto  Himself,  as  guards  in  heaven  — 
Loves  them  and  takes  them  as  his  own  companions 
In  their  strong  youth,  as  the  old  Greeks  have  said, 
Leaving  their  dust  in  tracts  most  desolate. 
A  bear,  as  in  old  time,  came  from  the  woods 
And  tore  him  there  upon  that  storm-swept  cliff — 
A  grim  and  grizzled  bear,  like  unto  hunger. 
A  tall  ship  sail'd  adown  the  sea  next  morn, 
And,  standing  with  his  glass  upon  the  prow, 
The  captain  saw  a  vulture  on  a  cliff, 
Gorging,  and  pecking,  stretching  his  long  neck, 
Bracing  his  raven  plumes  against  the  wind, 
Fretting  the  tempest  with  his  sable  feathers. 

DON  CAELOS. 

'Twas  wrong,  he  should  have  lived  and  fought  it  out. 
This  nursing  a  gushing  heart  of  sentiment 
Does  bring  contempt  on  half  the  schemes  of  life. 
Tears  are  a  woman's  weapons,  sorry  things 

11 


162  INA. 

Even  in  her,  but  in  man  despicable. 

What !  lie  down  and  be  rode  upon  rough-shod  ? 

No !  face  and  fight,  and  be  at  least  respected 

The  lion  is  not  a  comely  beast,  but  brave, 

And  is  therefore  revered  above  all  beasts, 

And,  bravest  of  the  brave,  is  chosen  king. 

God  and  his  angels  fought  for  heaven ;  Christ 

Did  beat  with  thongs  the  craven  money-changers  ; 

The  chosen  Peter  wore  a  willing  sword. 

The  stormy  elements  war  through  all  the  year ; 

Spring  and  bluff  Winter  strive  for  mastery  ; 

Autumn  and  Winter  struggle  on  the  heath, 

And  I  have  seen  them  wrestle  in  the  woods 

Until  the  yellow  leaves  were  all  awhirl, 

And  sighs  and  groans  went  up  and  down  the  hills. 


He  sought  the  impossible  —  asked  good  unmix'd, 
Asked  peace  on  earth  where  there  is  no  peace. 
Here  do  the  kernel  and  the  chaff  all  blend, 
And  good  and  evil  intwine.     Hereafter, 
After  the  harvest,  the  segregation. 
Even  the  Christ,  two  thousand  years  ago, 
In  the  far  dawn  while  yet  the  world  was  young, 


INA.  163 


Newer,  and  purer  from  the  hand  of  God, 
Did  find  a  traitor  in  His  chosen  twelve. 


LAMONTE. 

There 's  that  in  you  that  draws  my  soul  to  yours ; 
Your  head,  I  fear,  but  not  your  heart,  is  wrong. 
I  will  not  answer  now,  but  summon  you 
To  yon  grand  courts  to  give  in  evidence, 
Where  sleep  the  monarchs  of  a  thousand  storms, 
For  ever  still  in  shrouds  of  color'd  moss, 
While  green  vines  twine  a  pretty  wreath  above, 
As  crowning  graves  of  dear  and  gallant  dead ; 
The  Yew,  in  cloak  of  everlasting  green, 
Does  sweep  her  pretty  palms  in  winning  eloquence, 
While  scarlet  berries  bead  her  lisping  boughs 
Like  threaded  drops  of  rainbow-painted  dew, 
Or  pearls  upon  an  Indian  maiden's  limbs. 
Reposing  there  on  couch  of  mossy  carpet, 
Where  darkest  green  is  wove  with  yellow  moss, 
And  yellow  wove  with  green,  all  undisturb'd 
By  sight  or  sound  save  birds  of  sweetest  song, 
While  mighty  trees  above  receive  the  red 
And  hot  darts  of  the  sun  on  bearded  helmets, 


164  INA. 

Will  come  to  you  the  higher  evidence, 
Stronger  a  thousandfold  and  more  convincing 
Than  if  produced  by  oath  of  all  mankind. 
With  me  in  my  untraversed  wilds  and  caves, 
My  kingdom  unexplored,  you  will  read  the  book 
Of  Nature  that  unclasp'd  lies,  while  the  winds 
Mesmeric  as  the  fingers  of  your  love 
Will  turn  the  living  leaves  as  you  read  on  — 
Will  paint  in  lambent  amber  hues  and  Tyrian, 
And  strike  in  plaintive  mellow  tone  a  harp 
That  hangs  upon  the  lightning-shiver'd  pine ; 
And,  reading,  we  shall  happier  grow  and  better. 
Nature  will  mightier  seem  yet  milder  there, 
Because  we  shall  be  nearer  to  her  face. 


DON  CAKLOS. 

And  if  I  should,  what  then  ?    What  though  I  met 
My  Maker  face  to  face,  as  in  the  Mount  ? 
Left  mountain-bound  in  islands  of  the  clouds, 
What  fame  or  fortune  could  betide  me  there  ? 
I  had  as  well  know  secrets  of  deep  death, 
Or  hold  in  hand  the  keys  of  Caesar's  coffers, 
And  be  for  evermore  forbid  their  use. 


IN  A.  165 

LAMONTE. 

Why,  no !  You  'd  gather  up  pure  gems  of  thought, 
Or  catch  bright  fancies  one  by  one  that  flit 
You  by  like  beauteous  Orient  birds,  and  cage 
Them  up  between  a  precious  volume's  lids ; 
Or  like  one  gathering  gold  from  out  the  sand, 
A  little  here,  a  little  there,  then  all 
Mould  in  one  bright  and  shining  shield,  and  so 
Bearing  it  up,  descend  upon  the  worl'd 
Like  some  proud  conqueror  of  olden  time ; 
Or  shine  forth  in  the  newness  of  your  thought 
Like  some  bright  lovely  star  that  hastens  forth 
Before  its  mates,  chasing  the  sullen  sun, 
And  so  be  seen  and  known  of  all  the  world. 

DON  CARLOS. 

What  is  there  new  atop  of  this  old  world  ? 
Should  e'er  I  come  to  write  your  books,  why  I 
Would  search  among  the  quaint  and  dusty  tomes 
While  the  selfish  world  sought  pleasure  and  repose, 
And  Shoddy  did  up  the  European  tour 
Much  as  a  blockhead  schoolboy  does  a  task, 
While  men  well  skill'd  in  sales  of  soap  and  lard, 


166  INA. 

And  learn' d  in  all  the  art  of  packing  pork, 
Would  coarsely  tramp  the  sacred  dust  that  deeds, 
When   earth  was   blithe   and  young,  have  made  im 
mortal 

(Where  I  would  softly  tread  unshod  and  bared). 
I  'd  pick  up  here  and  there  from  dusty  masters 
The  ancient  coins  of  loftiest,  noblest  thought, 
And  cast  them  in  one  shining  shield  of  bronze, 
And  bearing  it  aloft  high-heralded, 
Well  flank'd  with  sheets  of  broad  advertisements, 
Be  call'd  a  bard  of  new-inspired  song. 
I  'd  throttle  modest  mien  and  word  in  this 
Swift  age,  as  base  traducers  of  my  fame ; 
I  'd  cast  meek  modesty  into  the  sea, 
The  Jonah  that  had  brought  me  all  my  trouble. 
I  'd  plant  a  preface  full  afront  my  book 
As  you  would  plant  a  battery  in  war, 
And,  bearing  down  all  things  that  dared  oppose, 
With  shout  and  flourish  take  the  world  by  storm. 
Or  at  the  least  I  'd  hold  a  touching  tale 
Before  my  book  as  you  would  hold  a  shield, 
And  with  it  catch  or  turn  aside  the  darts 
And  poison'd  shafts  of  killing  criticism. 
But  mind  you,  fame  is  not  now  won  with  ink, 


INA.  167 

The  author's  pen 's  a  lever,  lifting  others ; 
The  stain  of  blood  is  readier  seen  from  far, 
And  gold  like  some  bright  star's  at  once  beheld 
By  all  the  world  throughout  the  darkest  day, 
And  instant  wins  the  worship  of  the  mob. 

The  world  has  turn'd  shopkeeper  —  go,  sell,  sell; 
Put  on  yourself  a  costly  price,  to  sell : 
Real  cash-customers  buy  no  cheap  goods. 
The  mob  has  now  got  hold  the  money-bags, 
And  skilful  judges  of  corn,  pork,  and  cabbage 
Do  judge  men  by  their  arrogance  and  name. 
Assume  a  lofty  air  and  sounding  title  — 
The  barefaced  fools  outnumber  and  outshout 
The  men  of  sense  and  solid  worth  and  thought. 
The  gilded  chisell'd  vessels  that  encase 
Most  stupid,  sour,  and  unwholesome  wines 
At  once  are  pluck'd  at  by  the  money-mob, 
The  while  the  plain  but  precious  bottled  liquor 
Accumulates  the  dust  of  generations. 

Go,  buy  and  sell.    Get  gold.    A  golden  lever 
Moves  more  than  e'er  the  Syracusan  might. 
Deceit  brings  wealth,  wealth  buys  the  bubble  fame, 


i68  INA. 

Fame  lulls  the  fever  of  the  soul,  and  makes 
Us  feel  that  we  have  grasp'd  an  immortality. 

Oh,  I  have  mock'd  at  man  and  shook  with  mirth. 
Yet  is  in  all  a  sort  of  savage  justice. 
Have  you  no  time  observed  with  what  an  odd 
Yet  an  impartial  hand  are  things  divided  ? 
The  fool  has  fortunes  thrust  upon  him,  while 
The  man  of  brains  is  pinch'd  with  penury. 
The  dolt  who  feels  as  much  of  sentiment 
As  a  milch-cow,  fed  in  her  field  of  clover, 
Goes  on  serene  through  sweetest-smelling  meads, 
With  maidens  fainting  for  a  breath  of  love, 
And  heiresses  cast  at  his  empty  head 
By  fond  mammas,  whene'er  he  please  to  show  it ; 
While  he  of  finest  sense  is  blown  by  fate, 
Like  some  sea-waif,  upon  the  frontier  wild. 
The  prettiest  maiden  is  a  screeching  parrot, 
While  she  of  wit  is  shorn  of  all  of  beauty  ; 
The  gifted  man  is  stoop'd  and  sallow-pale, 
The  ass  stands  six  feet  up  of  lovely  flesh ; 
Wisdom  means  age  and  gout  and  ugliness, 
While  the  crude  boy  has  health  and  ruddy  beauty, 
And  wisdom's  sov'reign  head  is  bow'd  and  bald, 
And  the  rich  man  envies  the  beggar's  stomach. 


INA.  169 

LAMONTE. 

Give  me  your  hand,  your  right  in  this  my  left  — 
Its  blood  comes  nearer  from  the  heart  ;  and  then, 
My  right  is  dead,  deader  than  this  your  love  ; 
For  love,  like  Lazarus,  can  only  sleep, 
But,  breathed  upon  by  love  and  hope,  will  rise  — 
Rise  up  a  loftier  and  a  holier  love. 
I  know  you  now  ;  I  am  an  elder  brother, 
For  sorrow  and  deceit  have  made  us  kin. 
From  want  and  disappointment,  bitter  breasts, 
We  two  have  drawn  our  stormy  natures. 

A  Young  HUNTER  ascends  tlie  mountain  and  approaches. 
CARLOS. 


Ho  !  whom,  now,  have  we  here?    Talk  of  the  devil, 
And  he  is  at  hand.     Say,  who  are  you,  and  whence  ? 

HUNTER. 
I  am  a  poet,  and  dwell  down  by  the  sea. 

DON  CARLOS. 

A  poet  !  a  poet,  forsooth  !     Fool  !  hungry  fool  ! 
Would  you  know  what  it  means  to  be  a  poet  ? 


170  INA. 

It  is  to  want  a  friend,  to  want  a  home, 

A  country,  money,  —  ay,  to  want  a  meal. 

It  is  not  wise  to  be  a  poet  now, 

For  the  world  has  so  fine  and  modest  grown 

It  will  not  praise  a  poet  to  his  face, 

But  waits  till  he  is  dead  some  hundred  years, 

Then  uprears  marbles  cold  and  stupid  as  itself. 

But  rest  you  here,  and  while  the  red-hot  sun 
Wheels  on,  and  sleep  my  friends  beneath  the  boughs, 
Do,  pray,  beguile  the  hour  with  a  song. 

HUNTER  (sings). 
I  am  as  one  unlearned,  uncouth, 
From  country  come  to  join  the  youth 
Of  some  sweet  town  in  quest  of  truth ; 

A  Nazarene  of  wood  and  plain 
A-west,  from  whence  no  good  may  come. 
I  stand  apart  as  one  that's  dumb. 
I  hope  —  I  fear  —  I  hasten  home. 

I  plunge  into  my  wilds  again. 

I  catch  some  dulcet  symphonies, 
I  drink  the  low  sweet  melodies 


INA.  171 

That  stream  through  dense  dark  feathered  trees 
Like  echoes  from  some  far  church  bell, 

Or  music  on  the  water  spilled 

Beneath  the  still  moon's  holy  spell, 

And  life  is  sweeter  —  all  is  well  — 
The  soul  is  fed.     The  heart  is  filled. 

I  move  among  my  frowning  firs, 
Black  bats  wheel  by  in  rippled  whirs, 
While  naught  else  living  breathes  or  stirs. 

I  peep  —  I  lift  the  boughs  apart  — 
I  tiptoe  up  —  I  try  to  rise  — 
I  strive  to  gaze  into  the  eyes 
Of  charmers  charming  very  wise  — 

I  coin  their  faces  on  my  heart. 

I  hear  them  on  the  Northern  hills 
Discoursing  with  the  beaded  rills, 
While  over  all  the  full  moon  spills 

Her  flood  in  gorgeous  plenilune. 
White  skilful  hands  sweep  o'er  the  strings, 
I  heed  as  when  a  seraph  sings, 
I  lean  to  catch  the  whisperings, 

I  list  into  the  night's  sweet  noon. 


172  INA. 

I  see  them  by  the  Eastern  strand, 
A  singing  sea-shell  in  each  hand, 
And  silk  locks  tossing  as  they  stand, 

And  tangled  in  the  toying  breeze. 
And  lo  !  the  sea  with  salty  tears, 
While  white  hands  toss,  then  disappear, 
Doth  plead  that  they  for  years  and  years 

Will  stay  and  sing  unto  the  seas. 

DON  CARLOS. 

Hold !  hold  your  tongue,  and  hold  my  aching  head ! 
'Tis  well  for  you  the  Roman  mob  is  dead. 
This  stuff  of  yours  is  full  of  pompous  I's 
As  a  candidate  for  Congress  is  of  lies. 
Why  talk  so  loudly  of  yourself  at  large  ? 
Your  neighbors  do  that  for  you,  free  of  charge  ! 
This  poetry 's  not  of  the  heart,  but  stomach ; 
Not  inspiration,  but  'tis  indigestion 
Disturbs  the  balance-wheel  that  rules  your  brain. 
Love  food  the  less  —  respect  your  stomach  more, 
For  more  have  groan' d  and  died  from  over-use 
Of  knives  and  forks,  than  ever  fell  in  war 
By  bloody  sword  and  bayonet  and  ball. 

\_Tlie  HUNTER  rises  and  moves  away. 


INA.  i?3 

DON  CARLOS. 

Why,  what 's  the  haste  ?    You  '11  reach  there  soon 
enough. 

HUNTER. 

Reach  where  ? 

DON  CARLOS. 

The  Inn  to  which  all  earthly  roads  do  tend : 
The  "  neat  apartments  furnish'd  —  see  within  ; " 
The  "  furnish'd  rooms  for  quiet,  single  gentlemen ; " 
The  narrow  six-by-two  where  you  will  lie 
With  cold  blue  nose  pointing  up  to  the  grass, 
LabelPd  and  box'd,  and  ready  all  for  shipment. 
'Twas  said  of  old  that  all  roads  led  to  Rome, 
But  all  roads  now  do  lead  to  this  small  Inn. 
'Tis  just  so  many  leagues  ahead  of  you, 
Why,  then,  make  haste  to  cross  the  space  between  ? 


174 


V. 

LAMONTE'S  Camp-fire  in  the  Mountains. 

DON  CARLOS,  LAMONTE,  the    HUNTER,    and  others,   seated 

around,  smoking  and  telling  tales  of  home  and  how  they  came 

to  take  to  the  Mountains. 
OLD  LAMONTE,  the  mountaineer,  lounging  at  one  side,  talking 

Mvith  the  Young  Hunter,  and  pointing  out  to  him  his  new  com 

panions  :  — 

T  GREET  you  welcome  to  these  wild  mountains, 

As  will  these  my  comrades  at  their  good  leisure. 
And  now,  meantime,  that  you  '11  know  them  better, 
Yon  fair-hair'd  man,  all  in  beaded  buckskin 
And  belt  of  wampum,  now  peering  skyward, 
Is  noble  young  Lucus,  a  heart-sick  lover 
That  has  fled  a  coward  from  the  shafts  of  Cupid, 
Fearing  far  less  the  red  Indians'  arrows. 
The  man  beyond  him,  thick-lipp'd  and  surly, 
'Tis  said,  is  a  patriot  from  merry  old  England 
Who  took  to  these  mountains  for  the   good   of  his 

country. 

To  the  left,  by  the  pine,  is  a  dollarless  marquis 
At  talk  with  a  scholar  high-bred,  of  Oxford, 
Self-exiled,  say,  for  some  gay  peccadillo. 


INA.  175 

Beyond,  in  the  shade,  is  a  Southern  gentleman 
Talkino-  with  one  of  his  ten  brown  women. 

O 

That  black  Kanuk,  with  his  hair  on  his  shoulders, 
Has  herds  and  leagues  on  the  North  Red  River, 
And  wigwams  alive  with  olive-hued  children. 

& 

Over  here,  with  his  pipe,  is  a  thoughtfullest  German, 

Profound,  it  is  said,  in  his  lore  and  letters, 

And  silent  in  all  of  the  tongues  of  Europe. 

Yon  fast  young  man,  with  a  rose  in  his  bosom, 

Is  a  Spaniard  waiting  for  a  dear  relation 

To  die,  to  come  to  his  hard-earn'd  fortune. 

And  last  I  name  is  a  long-nosed  Yankee, 

Shrewdly  watching  to  improve  his  chances, 

Ready  to  trade,  trap,  preach,  or  peddle. 

Such  are  the  men  of  the  rough  Rocky  Mountains, 

Not  hairy  monsters  as  some  do  pronounce  us, 

But  men  blown  up  from  the  world's  four  quarters, 

Gentle  or  vicious,  serene  or  savage, 

Common  alone  in  undoubted  courage. 

Hist !   list  and  learn,  as  they  tell  their  adventures. 

A  gray  FRENCHMAN  ends  a  tale  thus :  — 

Alas,  the  sight  I  saw  that  night ! 
Alas,  that  I  should  tremble  here ! 


INA. 

I  know  'tis  not  a  coward  fear, 
And  yet  I  shiver  as  in  fright. 

The  blue  fields  blossom'd  yellow  bloom 
Of  brilliants  set  in  purple  gloom, 
A  silver  shield  slid  on  and  on 
Between  me  and  the  better  land, 
And  I  was  glad.    I  kiss'd  my  hand 
To  melting  stars  and  mellow  moon  — 
I  left  the  full  feast  oversoon, 
And  sought  the  peerless  paragon. 
Gay  jesting  at  her  clever  art 
In  hiding  in  some  spot  unknown, 
I  sought  her,  thought  her  mine,  my  own  — 
I  had  despised  a  baser  thought. 
I  sought  her  as  I  would  be  sought 
With  boundless  faith  and  beating  heart, 
Fill'd  full  of  sweet  uncertainties, 
Among  the  moonlit,  fruited  trees. 

Alas,  the  sight  I  saw  that  night 
Through  striped  bars  of  streaming  light, 
And  boughs  that  whisper'd  plaintively 
In  solemn  sympathy  with  me ! 


IN  A.  177 

A  red  dead  leaf  was  in  her  hair, 
Full  half  a  swelling  breast  was  bare, 
And  mad  disorder  everywhere. 
And,  gliding  through  a  thorny  brake 
And  sliding  like  a  slimy  snake, 
I  saw  him  stooping  steal  away 
Like  serpent  caught  in  Paradise, 
That  hid  it  from  the  face  of  day 
With  guilty  and  unholy  eyes. 

I  saw  a  sight  that  night,  that  night, 
Because  I  could  not  help  but  see  — 
Because  the  moon  was  bleached  so  white  — 
Because  the  stars  were  yellow  light  — 
Because  they  blossom' d  in  a  tree 
And  dropp'd  their  blossoms  on  the  grass  — 
And  saw  because,  alas,  alas ! 
An  evil  spirit  guided  me. 

He  was  my  friend.     He  ate  my  bread. 
He  counsell'd  very  wise  and  well ; 
"  I  love  you  more  than  words  can  tell," 
He  many  and  many  a  time  had  said. 
He  suck'd  the  juices  from  my  fruit 
12 


178  IN  A. 

And  left  for  me  the  bitter  rind. 
I  am  not  crazed  —  it  was  unkind 
To  suck  the  sweetness  from  my  fruit 
And  give  me  back  the  bitter  rind. 

And  did  I  curse  or  crush  or  kill  ? 
Go  down  to  yonder  wooded  gate, 
Go  down,  go  down,  it  groweth  late  ; 
You  hesitate  and  hesitate  — 
I  tremble  as  if  in  a  chill. 


It  open'd  very  wide  that  night, 
For  two  went  through  —  but  one  return'd 
And  when  its  rusty  hinges  turn'd, 
They  creak' d  as  if  in  pain  or  fright. 

Three  finger-prints  are  on  the  bar  — 
Three  finger-prints  of  purple  gore. 
You  scan  my  hand  —  here,  scan  it  more, 
And  count  my  fingers  o'er  and  o'er, 
You  cannot  see  a  sign  of  gore. 
I  lost  one  finger  in  the  war, 
And  is  it  not  an  honor'd  scar  ? 


IN  A.  179 

DON  CARLO s. 

"Woman !  and  still  the  sad  burden  is  woman ! 
O  most  valiant,  most  gallant  gentleman, 
Frighten'd  from  home  by  the  flirt  of  a  petticoat ! 
Well,  sigh  to  the  moon  and  delight  in  delusions, 
And  dream  that  she  too  turns  a  pale  face  to  heaven. 
Bah !  barely  your  shadow  goes  out  from  her  threshold 
Before  she  is  turning  all  smiles  on  another. 
But  you,  yon  gray  trapper  there,  storm-stained  and 

grizzled, 

And  gazing  still  dreamily  into  the  fire, 
Sure  you  have  a  tale  without  burden  of  woman. 
Come,  call  your  far  thoughts  from  the  mountain   or 

plain, 
In  the  wars  with  the  savage,  and  fight  them  again. 

THE  TRAPPER 

(Still  gazing  into  the  fire,  and  speaking  in  a  low  tone  as  if  to 
himself) . 

Back,  backward  to-night  is  memory  traversing, 
Over  the  desert  my  weary  feet  travell'd, 
Thick  with  the  wreck  of  my  dear  heart-idols 
And  toppled  columns  of  my  ambition, 
Red  with  the  best  of  my  hot  heart's  purple. 


i8o  IN  A. 

This  then  is  all  of  the  sweet  life  she  promised  ; 
This  then  is  all  of  the  fair  life  I  painted ! 
Dead,  ashen  apples  of  the  Dead-Sea  border ! 
Ah  yes,  and  worse  by  a  thousand  numbers, 
Since  that  can  be  lifted  away  as  we  will  it, 
While  desolate  life  with  its  dead  hope  buried 
Clings  on  to  the  clay,  though  the  soul  despise  it. 

Down  under  the  hill  and  there  under  the  fir-tree 
By  the  spring,  and  looking  far  out  in  the  valley, 
She  stands  as  she  stood  in  the  glorious  Olden, 
Swinging  her  hat  in  her  right  hand  dimpled, 
The  other  hand  toys  with  a  honey-suckle 
That  has  tiptoed  up  and  is  trying  to  kiss  her. 
Her  dark  hair  is  twining  her  neck  and  her  temples 
As  tendrils  some  beautiful  Balize  marble. 


"  O  eyes  of  lustre  and  love  and  passion ! 

0  radiant  face  like  the  sea-shell  tinted ! 
White  cloud  with  the  sunbeams  tangled  in  it ! " 

1  cried,  as  I  stood  in  the  dust  beneath  her, 

And  gazed  on  the  goddess  my  boy-heart  worshipped 
With  a  love  and  a  passion,  a  part  of  madness. 


INA.  181 

"  Dreamer,"  she  said,  and  a  tinge  of  displeasure 
Swept  over  her  face  that  I  should  disturb  her, 
"  All  of  the  fair  world  is  spread  out  before  you ; 
Go  down  and  possess  it  with  love  and  devotion, 
And  heart  ever  tender  and  touching  as  woman's, 
And  life  shall  be  fair  as  the  first  kiss  of  morning." 
I  turn'd  down  the  pathway,  was  blinded  no  longer : 
Another  was  coming,  tall,  manly,  and  bearded. 

I  built  me  a  shrine  in  the  innermost  temple  — 
In  the  innermost  rim  of  the  heart's  red  centre  — 
And  placed  her  therein,  sole  possessor  and  priestess, 
And  carved  all  her  words  on  the  walls  of  my  temple. 
They  say  that  he  woo'd  her  there  under  the  fir-tree, 
That  he  won  her  one  eve,  when  the  katydids  mock'd 

her. 

He  may  have  a  maiden  and  call  her  Merinda ; 
But  mine  is  the  one  that  stands  there  for  ever 
Leisurely  swinging  her  hat  by  the  ribbons. 

They  say  she  is  wedded.     No,  not  my  Merinda, 
For  mine  stands  for  ever  there  under  the  fir-tree 
Gazing  and  swinging  her  hat  by  the  ribbons. 
They  tell  me  her  children  reach  up  to  my  shoulder. 


182  INA. 

'Tis  false.     I  did  see  her  down  under  the  fir-tree 
When  the  stars  were  all  busy  a-weaving  thin  laces 
Made  red  with  their  gold  and  the  moon's  yellow  tresses, 
Swinging  her  hat  as  in  days  of  the  Olden. 

True,  that  I  spoke  not  nor  ventured  to  touch  her  — 
Touch  her !  I  sooner  would  pluck  the  sweet  Mary, 
The  mother  of  Jesus,  from  arms  of  the  priesthood, 
As  they  kneel  at  the  altar  in  holy  devotion ! 
****** 

And  was  it  for  this  that  my  heart  was  kept  tender, 
Fashion' d  from  thine,  O  sacristan  maiden  ?  — 
That  coarse  men  could  pierce  my  warm  heart  to  the 

purple  ? 

That  vandals  could  enter  and  burn  out  its  freshness  ? 
That  rude  men  could  trample  it  into  the  ashes  ?  — 
Oh  was  it  for  this  that  my  heart  was  kept  open  ? 
I  look'd  in  a  glass,  not  the  heart  of  my  fellow, 
Whose  was  the  white  soul  I  saw  there  reflected  ? 
But  trample  the  grape  that  the  wine  may  flow  freely ! 

Beautiful  priestess,  be  with  me  for  ever ! 
You  still  are  secure.     They  know  not  your  temple, 
They  never  can  find  it,  nor  pierce  it,  nor  touch  it, 


IN  A.  183 

Because  in  their  hearts  they  know  no  such  temple. 
I  turned  my  back  on  them,  a  Seminole  banished, 
Much  indeed  leaving  in  dark  desolation, 
But  bearing  one  treasure  alone  that  is  dearer 
Than  all  they  possess  or  have  fiercely  torn  from  me  : 
A  maiden  that  stands  looking  far  down  the  valley 
Swinging  her  hat  by  its  long,  purple  ribbons. 

DON  CARLOS. 

Worse  and  worse,  and  the  burden  still  woman ! 
The  crucifixion  of  rhyme  and  of  reason, 
With  the  sweet  Christ-truth  bleeding  dead  between 

them! 

Here  you,  young  rover,  or  hunter,  or  poet, 
If  you  have  wit,  here  's  a  chance  to  show  it ; 
Give  us  at  least  some  rhymes  that  jingle, 
Nor  jar  the  soul  till  the  senses  tingle. 

HUNTER  (sings). 
Alone  on  this  desolate  border, 
On  this  ruggedest  rinim'd  frontier, 
Where  the  hills  huddle  up  in  disorder 
Like  a  fold  in  mortal  fear, 
Where  the  mountains  are  out  at  the  elbow 


[84  INA. 

In  their  yellow  coats  seedy  and  sere, 
Where  the  river  runs  sullen  and  yellow, 
This  dismallest  day  of  the  year. 

I  go  up  and  down  on  the  granite, 
Like  an  unholy  ghost  under  bans. 

0  Christ!  for  the  eloquent  quiet! 
For  the  final  folding  of  hands ! 
"What  am  I  ?     Where  am  I  going, 

With  these  turbulent  winds  that  are  blowing  ? 
What  sowing  of  wind  in  the  lands, 
And  what  shall  I  reap  from  such  sowing? 

1  look  at  the  lizard  that  glides 
Up  over  the  mossy  boulders, 

With  green  epaulets  on  his  shoulders, 
And  regiment-stripes  on  his  sides. 

My  feet  are  in  dust  to  the  ankles ; 
My  heart,  it  is  dustier  still ; 
Will  never  the  dust  be  levell'd 
Till  the  heart  is  laid  under  the  hill  ? 
I  look  at  the  sun  sliding  over, 
A  cloud  is  swinging  on  hinges 
And  is  trying  his  glory  to  cover. 


INA.  185 


But  see !  his  beams  in  the  fringes 
Are  tangled  and  fastened  in  falling, 
And  a  sailor  above  us  is  calling 
"  Untangle  the  ravels  and  fringes." 

In  grim  battle-lines  up  o'er  us 
Gray,  shapely  ships  are  wheeling, 
Hulk,  sail,  and  shroud  revealing. 
A  flash,  a  crash  appalling, 
A  hurling  of  red-hot  spears, 
Hark !  terrible  thunder  calling 
In  fierce  infernal  chorus ! 
Now  silver  sails  are  falling 
Like  silver  sheens  before  us. 

What  Nelson  to  fame  aspires 
In  the  chartless  bluer  deep 
Where  white  ships  toss  and  tack  ? 
And  what  armed  host  appears  ? 
Lo !  I  have  seen  their  fires 
In  blue  fields  where  they  sleep 
At  night,  in  the  bivouac ; 
And  they  battle,  bleed,  and  weep, 
For  this  rain  is  warm  as  tears. 


186  INA. 

Oh !  why  was  1  ever  a  dreamer  ? 
Better  a  brute  on  the  plain, 
Or  one  who  believes  his  redeemer 
Is  greed,  and  gold,  and  gain  ; 
Or  one  who  can  riot  and  revel, 
Than  be  pierced  by  unbearable  pain, 
With  poesy  darling,  in  travail, 
That  will  not  be  born  from  the  brain. 

O  bride  by  the  breathing  ocean, 
With  lustrous  and  brimming  eye, 
Pour  out  the  Lethean  potion 
Till  a  lustrum  rolleth  by, 
Lulling  a  soul's  commotion, 
Plashing  against  the  sky  — 
Calming  a  living  spectre 
With  its  two  hands  toss'd  on  high. 

Come  to  me,  darling,  adorning 
Like  Aurora  the  desolate  region ; 
Come  with  step  stately  as  morning, 
Or  come  like  the  march  of  a  legion, 
Or  come  without  caution  or  warning, 
Or  come  like  the  lordly  tycoon, 


INA.  187 

Or  in  majesty  like  to  the  moon, 
But  come,  and  come  soon,  over-soon. 

Are  the  sea-winds  mild  and  mellow 
Where  my  sun-brown'd  babies  are, 
A-weaving  the  silken  and  yellow 
Seam'd  sunbeams  over  their  hair  ? 
Go  on  and  go  on  in  disorder, 
O  cloud  with  the  silver-red  rim, 
While  tangled  up  in  your  bright  border, 
The  glinting  silk  sunbeams  swim. 

DON  CARLOS  (yawning). 

Oh!  why  indulge  in  such  gipsy  jargon, 
Since  maids  must  mock,  and  men  slay  to  protect  them 
A  song  like  to  this  with  a  savagest  silence  ? 
I  fear,  young  man,  you  mistake  your  calling ; 
Why  not  fall  the  forests,  plant  red  potatoes  ? 
Or  what  of  the  art  of  raising  green  pumpkins, 
And  tall-topp'd  corn  with  its  silks  of  silver  ? 
Or  may  be  some  sheep  could  endure  your  measures 
On  the  Yamhill  hills,  if  you  must  aspire, 
As  you  swing  a  crook,  and  so  sweep  your  lyre. 


1 88  INA. 

HUNTER. 

The  bird  sings  in  the  busy  spring, 
The  sea  sings  in  his  booming  swells, 
And  all  his  pink  and  pearly  shells 
Sing  of  the  sea,  and  ever  sing. 
You  break  the  shell  or  bear  it  far 
From  ocean  as  the  morning  star, 
Yet  still  it  sings,  fast  bound  or  free, 
In  mellow  measures,  of  the  sea. 
And  I  shall  sing  and  sing  and  sing, 
Sing  ill  or  well,  though  men  do  chide, 
Until  a  hand  in  mine  is  laid 
To  lead  unto  the  other  side. 
Afar  a  ploughboy's  song  is  heard, 
In  chorus  with  the  building  bird, 
My  song  is  his  —  his  my  reward. 

I  heard  a  redbreast  on  the  wall, 
And  then  I  heard  the  truants'  call, 
And  cast  a  storm  of  earth  and  stone. 
He  flew,  and  perch'd  him  far  and  lone, 
Above  a  rushing  cataract, 
Where  never  living  thing  had  track'd  - 


INA.  189 

Where  mate  nor  man  nor  living  thing 
Could  ever  heed  or  hear  him  sing ; 
And  there  he  sang  his  song  of  spring, 
As  if  a  world  were  listening. 
He  sang  because  he  could  but  sing, 
Sweet  bird,  for  he  was  born  to  sing. 

A  million  hearts  have  felt  as  much 
As -ever  prince  of  poets  told, 
With  souls  that  scorn'd  a  colder  touch 
Than  love  refined  to  finest  gold, 
Yet  drove  the  team  and  turn'd  the  mould, 
And  whistled  songs  and  tragedies 
That  would  have  thrill'd  to  rage  or  tears  ; 
The  beam  and  moon  their  lance  and  shield, 
A  moat,  the  furrow  deep  and  broad ; 
And  lived  content  through  all  their  years 
In  one  long  paradise  of  peace, 
Unheard  beyond  their  broken  sod. 
And  shall  I  then  be  less  than  these  ? 

They  kept  their  fields',  their  flocks'  increase, 
And  walk'd  their  ideal  world  in  peace, 
They  would  not  drag  it  down  to  fit 


190  INA. 

The  mass  of  men  with  golden  god  — 
They  could  not  drag  man  up  to  it, 
So  lived  and  died  without  complain. 
All  tuneless  in  their  full  refrain, 
They  break  in  billows  through  the  sod. 

A  million  poets  God  hath  wrought ; 
But  very  few  have  made  pretence, 
And  fewer  still  found  utterance  ; 
For  words  are  shackles  unto  thought, 
And  fancies  fetter'd  down  by  words 
Droop  dull  and  tame  as  prison'd  birds, 
Lose  all  the  bright  hues  of  the  sky, 
As  does  the  clasped  butterfly. 

[\4s  the  YOUNG  HUNTER  concludes,  DON  CARLOS  apart,  am 
looking  down  the  mountain  to  the  declining  moon,  con 
tinues :  — ] 

Well,  he  would  make  you  a  good  maid-servant ; 
I  could  say,  "  She  can  come  to  you  well  recommended ; : 
For  behold  he  has  sung  till  they  sleep  most  soundly. 
The  thin,  sullen  moon,  pale-faced,  and  crooked 
As  a  half-starved  kine,  a  most  vicious  heifer, 
Is  sliding  down  in  all  haste  from  heaven, 


INA.  191 

To  gore  in  the  flank  of  yon  sleeping  mountain. 
My  comrades  sleep,  and  does  sleep  all  Nature ; 
The  world  has  a  rest  and  a  truce  till  to-morrow ; 
There  is  peace,  and  surcease  of  sin  and  of  sorrow ; 
All  things  take  rest  but  I  — 

HUNTER. 

And  I  only, 
Your  minstrel  and  whilom  your  roving  young  hunter. 

[Loosening  his  hair  from  his  shoulders. 
Ah  me !    My  Don  Carlos,  look  kindly  upon  me ! 
With  my  hand  on  your  arm  and  my  dark  brow  lifted 
Up  level  to  yours,  do  you  not  now  know  me  ? 
'Tis  your  own,  own  INA,  you  loved  by  the  ocean, 
In  the  warm-spiced  winds  from  the  far  Cathay. 
O  welcome  me  now  after  all  my  struggles, 
And  years  of  waiting  and  my  weary  journeys. 

DON  CARLOS  (bitterly). 

"  And  he  received  her  with  his  arms  extended, 
And  they  were  wedded,  and  lived  long  and  happily  "  — • 
At  least  so  runneth  the  oft-told  story. 
But  life  is  prosy,  and  my  soul  uprises 
Against  you,  madam,  as  you  stand  before  me 


192  INA. 

With  the  smell  of  the  deadman  still  upon  you, 

And  your  dark  hair  wet  from  his  death-damp  forehead 

You  are  not  my  Ina,  for  she  is  a  memory, 

A  marble  chisell'd,  in  my  heart's  dark  chamber 

Set  up  for  ever,  and  nought  can  change  her ; 

And  you  are  a  stranger,  and  the  gulf  between  us 

Is  wide  as  the  Plains,  and  as  deep  as  Pacific. 

No !  lips  blood-stain'd  and  your  limbs  polluted 

Shall  tempt  me  not  from  my  lordly  mountains. 

But  now,  good-by.     In  your  serape  folded, 
Hard  by  in  the  heat  of  the  pine-knot  fire, 
Sleep  you  as  sound  as  you  will  be  secure ; 
And  on  the  morrow  —  now  mark  me,  madam  — 
When  to-morrow  comes,  why,  you  will  turn  you 
To  the  right  or  left  as  did  Father  Abram. 
Good-night,  for  ever  and  for  aye,  good-by ; 
My  bitter  is  sweet  and  your  truth  is  a  lie. 

INA  (letting  go  his  arm  and  stepping  back). 
Well  then !  'tis  over,  and  'tis  well  thus  ended ; 
I  am  well  escaped  from  my  life's  devotion. 
The  waters  of  bliss  are  a  waste  of  bitterness ; 
The  day  of  joy  I  did  join  hands  over, 


INA.  193 

As  a  bow  of  promise  when  my  years  were  weary, 

And  set  high  up  as  a  brazen  serpent 

To  look  upon  when  I  else  had  fainted 

In  burning  deserts,  while  you  sipp'd  ices 

And  snowy  sherbets,  and  roam'd  unfetter'd, 

Is  a  deadly  asp  in  the  fruit  and  flowers 

That  you  in  your  bitterness  now  bring  to  me ; 

But  its  fangs  unfasten  and  it  glides  down  from  me, 

From  a  Cleopatra  of  cold  white  marble. 

I  have  but  done  what  I  would  do  over, 
Did  I  find  one  worthy  of  so  much  devotion ; 
And,  standing  here  with  my  clean  hands  folded 
Above  a  bosom  whose  crime  is  courage, 
The  only  regret  that  my  heart  discovers 
Is  that  I  should  do  and  have  dared  so  greatly 
For  the  love  of  one  who  deserved  so  little. 
And  as  for  my  lips'  and  my  limbs'  pollution, 
They  are  purer  than  any  strong  man's  new-wedded, 
Stain'd  without  purpose  in  his  coarse  brute-passion. 

Nay,  say  no  more,  nor  attempt  to  approach  me ; 
This  ten-feet  line  lying  now  between  us 
Shall  never  be  less  while  the  land  has  measure. 

13 


194 

See !  night  is  forgetting  the  east  in  the  heavens ; 
The  birds  pipe  shrill  and  the  beasts  howl  answer ; 
The  red  sun  reaches  his  arms  from  the  ocean, 
And  the  dusk  and  the  dawn  kiss  hands  good-by, 
But  not  for  ever,  as  do  you  and  I. 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL  ALCALDE. 


Shadows  that  shroud  the  to-morrow, 
Olists  from  the  life  that '*  within, 

Traces  of  pain  and  of  sorrow, 
And  maybe  a  trace  of  sin, 

Eeachings  for  God  in  the  darkness, 
And  for  —  what  should  have  been. 

Stains  from  the  gall  and  the  wormwood, 

Memories  bitter  like  myrrh, 
A  sad,  brown  face  in  a  fir-wood, 

Blotches  of  hearts  blood  here, 
But  never  the  sound  of  a  wailing, 

Never  the  sign  of  a  tear. 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL  ALCALDE. 

Thou  Italy  of  the  Occident ! 

Land  of  flowers  and  summer  climes, 

Of  holy  priests  and  horrid  crimes ; 

Land  of  the  cactus  and  sweet  cocoa; 

Richer  than  all  the  Orient 

In  gold  and  glory,  in  want  and  woe, 

In  self-denial,  in  days  misspent, 

In  truth  and  treason,  in  good  and  guilt, 

In  ivied  ruins  and  altars  low, 

In  batter' d  walls  and  blood  misspilt; 

Glorious,  gory  Mexico ! 

TT  THERE  mountains  repose  in  their  blueness, 
Where  the  sun  first  lands  in  his  newness, 
And  marshals  his  beams  and  his  lances, 
Ere  down  to  the  vale  he  advances 
With  visor  erect,  and  rides  swiftly 
On  the  terrible  night  in  his  way, 
And  slays  him,  and,  daring  and  deftly, 
Hews  from  him  the  beautiful  day 
With  his  flashing  sword  of  silver,  — 
Lay  nestled  the  town  of  Renalda, 
Far  known  for  its  famous  Alcalde, 
The  judge  of  the  mountain  mine, 
With  a  heart  like  the  heart  of  woman, 


198  THE   TALE  OF  THE 

And  humanity  more  than  human ; 
And  famed  for  its  maids  and  silver, 
Rich  mines  and  its  mountain  wine. 

And  the  royalest  feast  of  the  year  was  given, 
The  yearly  feast  in  commemoration 
Of  the  Holy  Mary's  Annunciation ; 
And  the  ears  of  night  were  rent  and  riven 
By  turbulent  men  made  stormy  with  wine  — 
Wine  by  virgins  press' d  from  the  vine, 
Wine  like  gold  from  the  San  Diego, 
Wine  blood-red  from  the  Saint  Bennetto, 
White  and  yellow  and  ruddy-red  wine. 
And  the  feast  was  full,  and  the  guests  afire, 
For  the  shaven  priest  and  the  portly  squire, 
The  solemn  judge  and  the  smiling  dandy, 
The  duke  and  the  don  and  the  commandante, 
All  sat,  and  shouted  or  sang  divine, 
Sailing  in  one  great  sea  of  wine ; 
And,  roused,  red-crested  knight  Chanticleer 
Answer'd  and  echo'd  their  song  and  cheer. 

They  boasted  of  broil,  encounter,  and  battle, 
They  boasted  of  maidens  most  cleverly  won, 


TALL  ALCALDE.  199 

Boasted  of  duels  most  valiantly  done, 

Of  leagues  of  land  and  of  herds  of  cattle, 

These  men  at  the  feast  up  in  fair  Renalda. 

All  boasted  but  one,  the  calm  Alcalde, 

Who  sat  stone-still  in  the  wild  wassail, 

Though  hard  they  press'd  from  first  of  the  feast, 

Press'd  commandante,  press'd  poet  and  priest, 

To  tell,  as  the  others,  his  own  life's  tale ; 

And  steadily  still  the  attorney  press'd, 

With  lifted  glass  and  his  face  aglow, 

Heedless  of  host  and  careless  of  guest  — 

"  A  tale !  the  tale  of  your  life,  so  ho ! 

For  not  one  man  in  all  Mexico 

Can  trace  your  history  a  half  decade." 

A  hand  on  the  rude  one's  lips  was  laid : 

"  Sacred,  my  son,"  a  priest  went  on, 

"  Sacred  the  secrets  of  every  one, 

Inviolate  as  an  altar-stone. 

But  what  in  the  life  of  one  who  must 

Have  been  so  pure  to  be  so  just, 

Have  lived  a  life  that  is  half  divine  — 

What  can  there  be,  O  advocate, 

In  the  life  of  one  so  desolate 

Of  luck  with  matron,  or  love  with  maid, 


200  THE   TALE  OF  THE 

Midnight  revel  or  escapade, 

To  stir  the  wonder  of  men  at  wine  ? 

But  should  the  Alcalde  choose,  you  know,"  — 

(And  here  his  voice  fell  soft  and  low 

As  he  set  his  wine-horn  in  its  place, 

And  look'd  in  the  judge's  care-worn  face)  — 

"  To  weave  us  a  tale  that  points  a  moral, 

Out  of  his  vivid  imagination, 

Of  lass  or  of  love,  or  lovers'  quarrel, 

Naught  of  his  fame  or  name  or  station 

Shall  lose  in  lustre  by  its  relation." 

Softly  the  judge  set  down  his  horn, 
Kindly  look'd  on  the  priests  all  shorn, 
And  gazed  in  the  eyes  of  the  advocate 
With  a  touch  of  pity,  but  none  of  hate ; 
Then  look'd  down  into  the  brimming  horn, 
Half  defiant  and  half  forlorn. 

Was  it  a  tear  ?    Was  it  a  sigh  ? 
Was  it  a  glance  of  the  priest's  black  eye  ? 
Or  was  it  the  drunken  revel-cry 
That  smote  the  rock  of  his  frozen  heart 
And  forced  his  pallid  lips  apart  ? 


TALL  ALCALDE.  201 

Or  was  it  the  weakness  like  to  woman 

Yearning  for  sympathy 

Through  the  dark  years, 

Spurning  the  secrecy, 

Burning  for  tears, 

Proving  him  human,  — 

As  he  said  to  the  men  of  the  silver  mine, 

With  their  eyes  held  up  as  to  one  divine, 

With  his  eyes  held  down  to  his  untouch'd  wine . 

"  It  might  have  been  where  moonbeams  kneel 
At  night  beside  some  rugged  steep ; 
It  might  have  been  where  breakers  reel, 
Or  mild  waves  cradle  men  to  sleep ; 
It  might  have  been  in  peaceful  life, 
Or  mad  tumult  and  storm  and  strife, 
I  drew  my  breath ;  it  matters  not. 
A  silver'd  head,  a  sweetest  cot, 
A  sea  of  tamarack  and  pine, 
A  peaceful  stream,  a  balmy  clime, 
A  cloudless  sky,  a  sister's  smile, 
A  mother's  love,  that  sturdy  time 
Has  strengthened  as  he  strengthens  wine, 
Are  mine,  are  with  me  all  the  while, 


202  THE   TALE   OF  THE 

Are  hung  in  memory's  sounding  halls, 
Are  graven  on  her  glowing  walls. 
But  rage,  nor  rack,  nor  wrath  of  man, 
Nor  prayer  of  priest,  nor  price,  nor  ban 
Can  wring  from  me  their  place  or  name, 
Or  why,  or  when,  or  whence  I  came ; 
Or  why  I  left  that  childhood  home, 
A  child  of  form  yet  old  of  soul, 
And  sought  the  wilds  where  tempests  roll 
Round  mountains  white  as  driven  foam. 

"  Mistaken  and  misunderstood, 
My  hot  magnetic  heart  sought  round 
And  craved  of  all  the  souls  I  knew 
But  one  responsive  throb  or  touch, 
Or  thrill  that  flashes  through  and  through  - 
Deem  you  that  I  demanded  much  ?  — 
Not  one  congenial  soul  was  found. 
I  sought  a  deeper  wild  and  wood, 
A  girlish  form  and  a  childish  face, 
A  wild  waif  drifting  from  place  to  place. 

"  Oh  for  the  skies  of  rolling  blue, 
The  balmy  hours  when  lovers  woo, 


TALL  ALCALDE.  203 

When  the  moon  is  doubled  as  in  desire, 
The  dreamy  call  of  the  cockatoo 
From  the  orange  snow  in  his  crest  of  fire, 
Like  vespers  calling  the  soul  to  bliss 
In  the  blessed  love  of  the  life  above, 
Ere  it  has  taken  the  stains  of  this ! 

41  The  world  afar,  yet  at  my  feet, 
Went  steadily  and  sternly  on  ; 
I  almost  fancied  I  could  meet 
The  crush  and  bustle  of  the  street, 
When  from  the  mountain  I  look'd  down. 
And  deep  down  in  the  canon's  mouth 
The  long-torn  ran  and  pick-axe  rang, 
And  pack-trains  coming  from  the  south 
Were  stringing  round  the  mountain  high 
In  long  gray  lines,  as  wild  geese  fly, 
While  mul'teers  shouted  hoarse  and  high, 
And  dusty,  dusky  mul'teers  sang  — 
6  Senora  with  the  liquid  eye  ! 
No  floods  can  ever  quench  the  flame, 
Or  frozen  snows  my  passion  tame, 
Jouana  with  the  coal-black  eye ! 
O  senorita,  bide  a  bye ! ' 


204  THE   TALE   OF  THE 

"  Environ'd  by  a  mountain  wal), 
So  fierce,  so  terrible  and  tall, 
It  never  yet  had  been  defiled 
By  track  or  trail,  save  by  the  wild 
Free  children  of  the  wildest  wood  — 
A  wood  that  roll'd  a  sullen  flood, 
A  sea  that  broke  in  snowy  foam 
"Where  everlasting  glaciers  rest, 
Where  stars  and  tempests  have  a  home, 
And  clouds  are  curl'd  in  mad  unrest 
And  whirl'd  and  swiii'd  by  crag  and  crest, 
An  unkiss'd  virgin  at  my  feet, 
Lay  my  pure,  hallow'd,  dreamy  vale, 
Where  breathed  the  essence  of  my  talc  — 
.    Lone  dimple  in  the  mountain's  face, 
Lone  Eden  in  a  boundless  waste  — 
It  lay  so  beautiful !  so  sweet ! 

"  There  in  the  sun's  decline  I  stood 
By  God's  form  wrought  in  pink  and  pearl, 
My  peerless,  dark-eyed  Indian  girl ; 
And  gazed  out  from  a  fringe  of  wood, 
With  full-fed  soul  and  feasting  eyes, 
Upon  an  earthly  paradise. 


TALL  ALCALDE.  205 

Inclining  to  the  south  it  lay, 

And  long  leagues  southward  roll'd  away, 

Until  the  sable-feather'd  pines 

And  tangled  boughs  and  amorous  vines 

Closed  like  besiegers  on  the  scene, 

The  while  the  stream  that  intertwined 

Had  barely  room  to  flow  between. 

It  was  unlike  all  other  streams, 

Save  those  seen  in  sweet  summer  dreams ; 

For  sleeping  in  its  bed  of  snow 

Nor  rock  nor  stone  was  ever  known, 

But  only  shining,  shifting  sands, 

For  ever  sifted  by  unseen  hands. 

It  curved,  it  bent  like  Indian  bow, 

And  like  an  arrow  darted  through, 

Yet  utter'd  not  a  sound  nor  breath, 

Nor  broke  a  ripple  from  the  start ; 

It  was  as  swift,  as  still  as  death, 

Yet  was  so  clear,  so  pure,  so  sweet, 

It  wound  its  way  into  your  heart 

As  through  the  grasses  at  your  feet. 

"  Once,  through  the  tall  untangled  grass, 
I  saw  two  black  bears  careless  pass, 
And  in  the  twilight  turn  to  play ; 


206  THE   TALE   OF  THE 

I  caught  my  rifle  to  my  face, 
She  chid  me  with  a  quiet  grace 
And  said,  « Not  so,  for  us  the  day, 
The  night  belongs  to  such  as  they.' 

"  And  then  from  out  the  shadow'd  wood 
The  antler'd  deer  came  stalking  down 
In  half  a  shot  of  where  I  stood ; 
Then  stopp'd  and  stamp'd  impatiently, 
Then  shook  his  head  and  antlers  high, 
And  then  his  keen  horns  backward  threw 
Upon  his  shoulders  broad  and  brown, 
And  thrust  his  muzzle  in  the  air, 
Snuff 'd  proudly ;  then  a  blast  he  blew 
As  if  to  say,  No  danger  here. 
And  then  from  out  the  sable  wood 
His  mate  and  two  sweet  dappled  fawns 
Stole  forth,  and  by  the  monarch  stood, 
She  timid,  while  the  little  ones 
Would  start  like  aspens  in  a  gale. 
Then  he,  as  if  to  reassure 
The  timid,  trembling,  and  demure, 
Again  his  antlers  backward  threw, 
Again  a  blast  defiant  blew, 
Then  led  them  proudly  down  the  vale. 


TALL  ALCALDE.  207 

"  I  watch'd  the  forms  of  darkness  come 
Slow  stealing -from  their  sylvan  home, 
And  pierce  the  sunlight  drooping  low 
And  weary,  as  if  loath  to  go. 
He  stain'd  the  lances  as  he  bled, 
And,  bleeding  and  pursued,  he  fled 
Across  the  vale  into  the  wood. 
I  saw  the  tall  grass  bend  its  head 
Beneath  the  stately  martial  tread 
Of  the  pursuer  and  pursued. 

"  '  Behold  the  clouds,'  Winnema  said, 
1  All  purple  with  the  blood  of  day ; 
The  night  has  conquer'd  in  the  fray, 
The  shadows  live,  and  light  is  dead.' 

"  She  turn'd  to  Shasta  gracefully, 
Around  whose  hoar  and  mighty  head 
Still  roll'd  a  sunset  sea  of  red, 
While  troops  of  clouds  a  space  below 
Were  drifting  wearily  and  slow, 
As  seeking  shelter  for  the  night, 
Like  weary  sea-birds  in  their  flight ; 
Then  curved  her  light  arm  gracefully 
Above  her  brow,  and  bow'd  her  knee, 


208  THE   TALE   OF  THE 

And  chanted  in  an  unknown  tongue 
Words  sweeter  than  were  ever  sung. 

" « And  what  means  this  ? '     I  gently  said. 
c  I  spoke  to  God,  the  Yopitone, 
Who  dwells  on  yonder  snowy  throne,' 
She  softly  said,  with  drooping  head ; 
4 1  bow'd  to  God.    He  heard  my  prayer, 
I  felt  his  warm  breath  in  my  hair, 
He  heard  me  my  desires  tell, 
And  he  is  good,  and  all  is  well.' 

"  The  dappled  and  the  dimpled  skies, 
The  timid  stars,  the  tinted  moon, 
All  smiled  as  sweet  as  sun  at  noon. 
Her  eyes  were  like  the  rabbit's  eyes, 
Her  mien,  her  manner,  just  as  mild, 
And,  though  a  savage  war-chief's  child, 
She  would  not  harm  the  lowliest  worm. 
And  though  her  beaded  foot  was  firm, 
And  though  her  airy  step  was  true, 
She  would  not  crush  a  drop  of  dew. 

"  Her  love  was  deeper  than  the  sea, 
And  stronger  than  the  tidal  rise, 


TALL  ALCALDE.  209 

And  clung  in  all  its  strength  to  me. 
A  face  like  hers  is  never  seen 
This  side  the  gates  of  paradise, 
Save  in  some  Indian-Summer  scene, 
And  then  none  ever  sees  it  twice  — 
Is  seen  but  once,  and  seen  no  more, 
Seen  but  to  tempt  the  sceptic  soul, 
And  show  a  sample  of  the  whole 
That  Heaven  has  in  store. 

"  You  might  have  pluck'd  beams  from  the 

moon, 

Or  torn  the  shadow  from  the  pine 
When  on  its  dial  track  at  noon, 
But  not  have  parted  us  an  hour, 
She  was  so  wholly,  truly  mine. 
And  life  was  one  unbroken  dream 
Of  purest  bliss  and  calm  delight, 
A  flow'ry-shored  untroubled  stream 
Of  sun  and  song,  of  shade  and  bower, 
A  full-moon' d  serenading  night. 

"  Sweet  melodies  were  in  the  air, 
And  tame  birds  caroll'd  everywhere. 
14 


2io  THE  TALE   OF  THE 

I  listen'd  to  the  lisping  grove 
And  cooing  pink-eyed  turtle-dove, 
And,  loving  with  the  holiest  love, 
Believing,  with  a  grand  belief, 
That  every  thing  beneath  the  skies 
Was  beautiful  and  born  to  love, 
That  man  had  but  to  love,  believe, 
And  earth  would  be  a  paradise 
As  beautiful  as  that  above, 
My  goddess,  Beauty,  I  adored, 
Devoutly,  fervid,  her  alone  ; 
My  Priestess,  Love,  unceasing  pour'd 
Pure  incense  on  her  altar-stone. 

"  I  carved  my  name  in  coarse  design 
Once  on  a  birch  down  by  the  way, 
At  which  she  gazed,  as  she  would  say, 
4  What  does  this  say  ?     What  is  this  sign  ? 
And  when  I  gayly  said,  c  Some  day 
Some  one  will  come  and  read  my  name, 
And  I  will  live  in  song  and  fame, 
As  he  who  first  found  this  sweet  vale, 
Entwined  with  many  a  mountain  tale, 
And  they  will  give  the  place  my  name,' 


TALL  ALCALDE.  211 

She  was  most  sad,  and  troubled  much, 
And  look'd  in  silence  far  away ; 
Then  started  trembling  from  my  touch, 
And  when  she  turn'd  her  face  again, 
I  read  unutterable  pain. 

"  At  last  she  answer' d  through  her  tears, 
'  Ah !   yes ;  this,  too,  fulfils  my  fears.  . 

Yes,  they  will  come  —  my  race  must  go 
As  fades  a  vernal  fall  of  snow ; 
And  you  be  known,  and  I  forgot 
Like  these  brown  leaves  that  rust  and  rot 
Beneath  my  feet ;  and  it  is  well : 
I  do  not  seek  to  thrust  my  name 
On  those  who  here,  hereafter,  dwell, 
Because  I  have  before  them  dwelt ; 
They  too  will  have  their  tales  to  tell, 
They  too  will  ask  their  time  and  fame. 

" c  Yes,  they  will  come,  come  even  now : 
The  dim  ghosts  on  yon  mountain's  brow, 
Gray  Fathers  of  my  tribe  and  race, 
Do  beckon  to  us  from  their  place, 
And  hurl  red  arrows  through  the  air 

At  night,  to  bid  our  braves  beware. 

**£* 


212  THE   TALE  OF  THE 

A  foot-print  by  the  clear  McCloud, 
Unlike  aught  ever  seen  before, 
Is  seen.     The  crash  of  rifles  loud 
Is  heard  along  its  farther  shore.' 


"  What  tall  and  tawny  men  were  these, 
As  sombre,  silent,  as  the  trees 
They  moved  among !  and  sad  some  way 
With  tempered  sadness,  ever  they,  — 
Yet  not  with  sorrow  born  of  fear. 
The  shadow  of  their  destinies 
They  saw  approaching  year  by  year, 
And  murmured  not.     They  saw  the  sun 
Go  down ;  they  saw  the  peaceful  moon 
Move  on  in  silence  to  her  rest, 
And  white  streams  winding  to  the  west : 
And  thus  they  knew  that  oversoon, 
Somehow,  somewhere,  for  every  one 
Was  rest  beyond  the  setting  sun. 
They  knew  not,  never  dreamed,  a  doubt, 
But  turned  to  death  as  to  a  sleep, 
And  died  with  eager  hands  held  out 
To  reaching  hands  beyond  the  deep,  — 


TALL  ALCALDE.  213 

And  died  with  choicest  bow  at  hand, 
And  quiver  full,  and  arrow  drawn 
For  use,  when  sweet  to-morrow's  dawn 
Should  wake  them  in  the  Spirit  Land. 

"  What  wonder  that  I  lingered  there 
With  Nature's  children !     Could  I  part 
With  those  that  met  me  heart  to  heart, 
And  made  me  welcome,  spoke  me  fair, 
Were  first  of  all  that  understood 
My  waywardness  from  others'  ways, 
My  worship  of  the  true  and  good, 
And  earnest  love  of  Nature's  God, 
Now  that  their  dark  days  gathered  near, 
And  came  calamity  and  fear  ? 
O  idle  men  of  empty  days, 
Go  court  the  mountains  in  the  clouds, 
And  clashing  thunder,  and  the  shrouds 
Of  tempests,  and  eternal  shocks, 
And  fast  and  pray  as  one  of  old 
In  earnestness,  and  ye  shall  hold 
The  mysteries ;  shall  hold  the  rod 
That  passes  seas,  that  smites  the  rocks 
Where  streams  of  melody  and  song 


214  THE   TALE   OF  THE 

Shall  run  as  white  streams  rush  and  flow 
Down  from  the  mountains'  crests  of  snow, 
Forever,  to  a  thirsting  throng. 

"  Between  the  white  man  and  the  red 
There  lies  no  neutral,  half-way  ground. 
I  heard  afar  the  thunder  sound 
That  soon  should  burst  above  my  head, 
And  made  my  choice ;  I  laid  my  plan, 
And  child-like  chose  the  weaker  side ; 
And  ever  have,  and  ever  will, 
While  might  is  wrong  and  wrongs  remain, 
As  careless  of  the  world  as  I 
Am  careless  of  a  cloudless  sky. 
With  wayward  and  romantic  joy 
I  gave  my  pledge  like  any  boy, 
But  kept  my  promise  like  a  man, 
And  lost ;  yet  with  the  lesson  still 
Would  gladly  do  the  same  again. 

" '  They  come !  they  come !  the  pale-face  come ! ' 
The  chieftain  shouted  where  he  stood 
Sharp  watching  at  the  margin  wood, 
And  gave  the  war-whoop's  treble  yell, 


TALL  ALCALDE.  215 

That  like  a  knell  on  fair  hearts  fell 
Far  watching  from  their  rocky  home. 

"  No  nodding  plumes  or  banners  fair 
Unfurl'd  or  fretted  through  the  air ; 
No  screaming  fife  or  rolling  drum 
Did  challenge  brave  of  soul  to  come : 
But,  silent,  sinew-bows  were  strung, 
And,  sudden,  heavy  quivers  hung, 
And,  swiftly,  to  the  battle  sprung 
Tall  painted  braves  with  tufted  hair, 
Like  death-black  banners  in  the  air. 

"  And  long  they  fought,  and  firm  and  well ; 
And  silent  fought,  and  silent  fell, 
Save  when  they  gave  the  fearful  yell 
Of  death,  defiance,  or  of  hate. 
But  what  were  feather'd  flints  to  fate  ? 
And  what  were  yells  to  seething  lead  ? 
And  what  the  few  and  feeble  feet 
To  troops  that  came  with  martial  tread, 
And  stood  by  wood  and  hill  and  stream 
As  thick  as  people  in  a  street, 
As  strange  as  spirits  in  a  dream  ? 


216  THE. TALE   OF  THE 

"  From  pine  and  poplar,  here  and  there, 
A  cloud,  a  flash,  a  crash,  a  thud, 
A  warrior's  garments  roll'd  in  blood, 
A  yell  that  rent  the  mountain  air 
Of  fierce  defiance  and  despair, 
Did  tell  who  fell,  and  when  and  where. 
Then  tighter  drew  the  coils  around, 
And  closer  grew  the  battle-ground, 
And  fewer  feather'd  arrows  fell, 
And  fainter  grew  the  battle  yell, 
Until  upon  the  hill  was  heard 
The  short,  sharp  whistle  of  the  bird. 

"  The  calm,  that  cometh  after  all, 
Look'd  sweetly  down  at  shut  of  day, 
Where  friend  and  foe  commingled  lay 
Like  leaves  of  forest  as  they  fall. 
Afar  the  sombre  mountains  frown'd, 
Here  tall  pines  wheel'd  their  shadows  round 
Like  long,  slim  fingers  of  a  hand 
That  sadly  pointed  out  the  dead. 
Like  some  broad  shield  high  overhead 
The  great  white  moon  led  on  and  on, 
As  leading  to  the  better  land. 


TALL  ALCALDE.  217 

You  might  have  heard  the  cricket's  trill, 
Or  night-birds  calling  from  the  hill, 
The  place  was  so  profoundly  still. 

"  The  mighty  chief  at  last  was  down, 
The  broken  breast  of  brass  and  pride ! 
The  hair  all  dust,  the  brow  a-frown, 
And  proud  mute  lips  compress'd  in  hate 
To  foes,  yet  all  content  with  fate  ; 
While,  circled  round  him  thick,  the  foe 
Had  folded  hands  in  dust,  and  died. 
His  tomahawk  lay  at  his  side, 
All  blood,  beside  his  broken  bow. 
One  arm  stretch'd  out  as  over-bold, 
One  hand  half  doubled  hid  in  dust, 
And  clutchM  the  earth,  as  if  to  hold 
His  hunting-grounds  still  in  his  trust. 

"  Here  tall  grass  bow'd  its  tassel'd  head 
In  dewy  tears  above  the  dead, 
And  there  they  lay  in  crooked  fern, 
That  waved  and  wept  above  by  turn  ; 
And  further  on,  by  sombre  trees, 
They  lay,  wild  heroes  of  wildest  deeds, 


218  THE   TALE   OF  THE 

In  shrouds  alone  of  weeping  weeds, 
Bound  in  a  never-to-be-broken  peace. 

"  Not  one  had  falter'd,  not  one  brave 
Survived  the  fearful  struggle,  save 
One  —  save  I  the  renegade, 
The  red  man's  friend,  and  —  they  held  me  so 
For  this  alone  —  the  white  man's  foe. 
And  I  sat  bound,  a  stone  on  stone, 
And  waked  and  watched  alone ;  alone 
I  looked  on  all,  asleep  or  dead  : 
Watched  dead  and  living  undismay'd 
Through  gory  hair  with  lifted  head. 

"  They  bore  me  bound  for  many  a  day 
Through  fen  and  wild,  by  foamy  flood, 
From  my  dear  mountains  far  away, 
Where  an  adobe  prison  stood 
Beside  a  sultry,  sullen  town, 
With  iron  eyes  and  stony  frown ; 
And  in  a  dark  and  narrow  cell, 
So  hot  it  almost  took  my  breath, 
And  seem'd  but  an  outpost  of  hell, 
They  thrust  me  —  as  if  I  had  been 


TALL  ALCALDE.  219 

A  monster,  in  a  monster's  den. 

I  cried  aloud,  I  courted  death, 

I  call'd  unto  a  strip  of  sky, 

The  only  thing  beyond  my  cell 

That  I  could  see ;  but  no  reply 

Came  but  the  echo  of  my  breath. 

I  paced  —  how  long  I  cannot  tell  — 

My  reason  fail'd,  I  knew  no  more, 

And  swooning  fell  upon  the  floor. 

Then  months  went  on,  till  deep  one  night, 

When  long  thin  bars  of  lunar  light 

Lay  shimmering  along  the  floor, 

My  senses  came  to  me. once  more. 

"  My  eyes  look'd  full  into  her  eyes  — 
Into  her  soul  so  true  and  tried. 
I  thought  myself  in  paradise, 
And  wonder'd  when  she  too  had  died. 
And  then  I  saw  the  striped  light 
That  struggled  past  the  prison  bar, 
And  in  an  instant,  at  the  sight, 
My  sinking  soul  fell  just  as  far 
As  could  a  star  loosed  by  a  jar 
From  out  the  setting  in  the  ring, 


220  THE    TALE   OF  THE 

The  purpled,  semi-circled  ring 
That  seems  to  circle  us  at  night. 

"  She  saw  my  senses  had  return'd, 
Then  swift  to  press  my  pallid  face  — 
Then,  as  if  spurn'd,  she  sudden  turn'd 
Her  sweet  face  to  the  prison  wall ; 
Her  bosom  rose,  her  hot  tears  fell 
Fast,  as  drip  moss-stones  in  a  well, 
And  then,  as  if  subduing  all 
In  one  strong  struggle  of  the  soul, 
Be  what  they  were  of  vows  or  fears, 
With  kisses  and  hot  scalding  tears, 
There  in  that  deadly,  loathsome  place, 
She  bathed  my  bleach'd  and  bloodless  face. 

"  I  was  so  weak  I  could  not  speak 
Or  press  my  pale  lips  to  her  cheek ; 
I  only  look'd  my  wish  to  share 
The  secret  of  her  presence  there. 
Then  looking  through  her  falling  hair, 
Still  sadder  —  so  that  face  appears, 
Seen  through  the  tears  and  blood  of  years  - 
Than  Pocahontas  bathed  in  tears, 


TALL  ALCALDE.  221 

She  press'd  her  finger  to  her  lips, 

More  sweet  than  sweets  the  brown  bee  sips. 

More  sad  than  any  grief  untold, 

More  silent  than  the  milk-white  moon, 

She  turn'd  away.     I  heard  unfold 

An  iron  door,  and  she  was  gone. 

"  At  last,  one  midnight,  I  was  free ; 
Again  I  felt  the  liquid  air 
Around  my  hot  brow  like  a  sea, 
Sweet  as  my  dear  Madonna's  prayer, 
Or  benedictions  on  the  soul ; 
Pure  air,  which  God  gives  free  to  all, 
Again  I  breathed  without  control  — 
Pure  air,  that  man  would  fain  enthral ; 
God's  air,  which  man  hath  seized  and  sold 
Unto  his  fellow-man  for  gold. 

"  I  bow'd  down  to  the  bended  sky, 
I  toss'd  my  two  thin  hands  on  high, 
I  call'd  unto  the  crooked  moon, 
I  shouted  to  the  shining  stars, 
With  breath  and  rapture  uncontroll'd, 
Like  some  wild  school-boy  loosed  at  noon, 


222  THE   TALE   OF  THE 

Or  comrade  coming  from  the  wars, 
Hailing  his  companeers  of  old. 

"  Short  time  for  shouting  or  delay,  — 
The  cock  is  shrill,  the  east  is  gray, 
Pursuit  is  made,  I  must  away. 
They  cast  me  on  a  sinewy  steed, 
And  bid  me  look  to  girth  and  guide  — 
A  caution  of  but  little  need, 
For  I  on  Sacramento's  plain, 
"When  mounted  warriors  thunder' d  by 
And  train'd  their  barbs  to  face  or  fly, 
Once  sprang  upon  the  stoutest  steed 
That  swept  unmaster'd  through  the  band, 
Fierce  and  unbridled,  wild  and  bare 
As  fabled  wing'd  steed  of  the  air, 
And,  clutching  to  his  tossing  mane, 
Swept  onward  like  a  hurricane, 
And,  guiding  him  with  heel  and  hand, 
Lay  like  a  shadow  to  his  side, 
And  hurl'd  the  lance  at  topmost  speed 
Beneath  the  arch'd  neck  of  my  steed, 
And  pierced  the  cactus  targe  that  stood 
An  -imaged  foe  against  the  wood, 


TALL  ALCALDE.  223 

And  heard  the  shouts  of  savage  pride. 

I  dash  the  iron  in  his  side, 

Swift  as  the  shooting  stars  I  ride ; 

I  turn,  I  see,  to  my  dismay, 

A  silent  rider  red  as  they ; 

I  glance  again  —  it  is  my  bride, 

My  love,  my  life,  rides  at  my  side. 

"  By  gulch  and  gorge  and  brake  and  all, 
SAvift  as  the  shining  meteors  fall, 
We  fly,  and  never  sound  nor  word 
But  ringing  mustang-hoofs  is  heard, 
And  limbs  of  steel  and  lungs  of  steam 
Could  not  be  stronger  than  theirs  seem. 
Grandly  as  some  joyous  dream, 
League  on  league,  and  hour  on  hour, 
Far  from  keen  pursuit,  or  power 
Of  sheriff  or  bailiff,  high  or  low, 
Into  the  bristling  hills  we  go. 

"  Into  the  snowy-hair'd  McCloud, 
White  as  the  foldings  of  a  shroud ; 
We  dash  into  the  dashing  stream, 
We  breast  the  tide,  we  drop  the  rein, 


224  THE   TALE  OF  THE 

We  clutch  the  streaming,  tangled  mane  — 
And  yet  the  rider  at  my  side 
Has  never  look  nor  word  replied. 

"  Out  in  its  foam,  its  rush,  its  roar, 
Breasting  away  to  the  farther  shore ; 
Steadily,  bravely,  gain'd  at  last, 
Gain'd,  where  never  a  dastard  foe 
Has  dared  to  come,  or  friend  to  go. 
Pursuit  is  baffled  and  danger  pass'd. 

"  Under  an  oak  whose  wide  arms  were 
Lifting  aloft,  as  if  in  prayer, 
Under  an  oak,  where  the  shining  moon 
Like  feather'd  snow  in  a  winter  noon 
Quiver'd,  sifted,  and  drifted  down 
In  spars  and  bars  on  her  shoulders  brown : 
And  yet  she  was  as  silent  still 
As  black  stones  toppled  from  the  hill  — 
Great  basalt  blocks  that  near  us  lay, 
Deep  nestled  in  the  grass  untrod 
By  aught  save  wild  beasts  of  the  wood  — 
Great,  massive,  squared,  and  chisell'd  stone, 
Like  columns  that  had  toppled  down 


TALL  ALCALDE.  225 

From  temple  dome  or  tower  crown, 

Along  some  drifted,  silent  way 

Of  desolate  and  desert  town 

Built  by  the  children  of  the  sun. 

And  I  in  silence  sat  on  one, 

And  she  stood  gazing  far  away 

To  where  her  childhood  forests  lay, 

Still  as  the  stone  I  sat  upon. 

And  through  the  leaves  the  silver  moon 

Fell  sifting  down  in  silver  bars 

And  play'd  upon  her  raven  hair, 

And  darted  through  like  dimpled  stars 

That  dance  through  all  the  night's  sweet  noon 

To  echoes  of  an  unseen  choir. 

"  I  sought  to  catch  her  to  my  breast 
And  charm  her  from  her  silent  mood ; 
She  shrank  as  if  a  beam,  a  breath, 
Then  silently  before  me  stood, 
Still,  coldly,  as  the  kiss  of  death. 
Her  face  was  darker  than  a  pall, 
Her  presence  was  so  proudly  tall, 
I  would  have  started  from  the  stone 
Where  I  sat  gazing  up  at  her, 
15 


226  THE    TALE   OF  THE 

As  from  a  form  to  earth  unknown, 
Had  I  possess'd  the  power  to  stir. 

" '  O  touch  me  not,  no  more,  no  more ; 
'Tis  past,  and  my  sweet  dream  is  o'er. 
Impure !     Impure !     Impure ! '  she  cried, 
In  words  as  sweetly,  weirdly  wild 
As  mingling  of  a  rippled  tide, 
And  music  on  the  waters  spill'd. 
'  Pollution  foul  is  on  my  limbs, 
And  poison  lingers  on  my  lips ; 
My  red  heart  sickens,  hot  head  swims, 
I  burn  unto  my  finger-tips. 
But  you  are  free.     Fly !     Fly  alone. 
Yes,  you  will  win  another  bride 
In  some  far  clime  where  naught  is  known 
Of  all  that  you  have  won  or  lost, 
Or  what  your  life  this  night  has  cost ; 
Will  win  you  name,  and  place,  and  power, 
And  ne'er  recall  this  face,  this  hour, 
Save  in  some  secret,  deep  regret, 
Which  I  forgive  and  you  '11  forget. 
Your  destiny  will  lead  you  on 
Where,  open'd  wide  to  welcome  you, 


TALL  ALCALDE.  227 

Rich,  gushing  hearts  and  bosoms  are, 

And  snowy  arms,  more  purely  fair, 

And  breasts  —  who  dare  say  breasts  more  true* 

When  all  this  dear  night's  deeds  are  done  ? 

"  *  They  said  you  had  deserted  me, 
Had  rued  you  of  your  wood  and  wild. 
I  knew,  I  knew  it  could  not  be, 
I  trusted  as  a  trusting  child. 
I  cross'd  the  bristled  mountain  high 
That  curves  its  rough  back  to  the  sky, 
I  rode  the  white-maned  mountain  flood, 
And  track'd  for  weeks  the  trackless  wood. 
The  good  God  led  me,  as  before, 
And  brought  me  to  your  prison-door. 

" '  That  madden'd  call !  that  fever'd  moan ! 
I  heard  you  in  the  midnight  call 
My  own  name  through  the  massive  wall, 
In  my  sweet  mountain-tongue  and  tone  — 
And  yet  you  call'd  so  feebly  wild, 
I  near  mistook  you  for  a  child. 
The  keeper  with  his  clinking  keys 
I  sought,  implored  upon  my  knees 


228  THE    TALE   OF  THE 

That  I  might  see  you,  feel  your  breath, 
Your  brow,  or  breathe  you  low  replies 
.  Of  comfort  in  your  lonely  death. 
His  red  face  shone,  his  redder  eyes 
Were  like  the  fire  of  the  skies, 
And  all  his  face  was  as  a  fire, 
As  he  said,  "  Yield  to  my  desire." 
Again  I  heard  your  feeble  moan, 
I  cried,  "  And  must  he  die  alone  ?  " 
I  cried  unto  a  heart  of  stone. 
Ah !  why  the  hateful  horrors  tell  ? 
Enough  !  I  crept  into  your  cell 
Polluted,  loathed,  a  wretched  thing, 
An  ashen  fruit,  a  poison'd  spring. 

" c  I  nursed  you,  lured  you  back  to  life, 
And  when  you  woke  and  call'd  me  wife 
And  love,  with  pale  lips  rife 
With  love  and  feeble  loveliness, 
I  turn'd  away,  I  hid  my  face, 
In  mad  reproach  and  deep  distress, 
In  dust  down  in  that  loathsome  place. 

" c  And  then  I  vow'd  a  solemn  vow 
That  you  should  live,  live  and  be  free. 


TALL  ALCALDE.  221 

And  you  have  lived  —  are  free ;  and  now 

Too  slow  yon  red  sun  comes  to  see 

My  life  or  death,  or  me  again. 

Oh  the  peril  and  the  pain 

I  have  endured  !  the  dark  stain 

That  I  did  take  on  my  fair  soul, 

All,  all  to  save  you,  make  you  free, 

Are  more  than  mortal  can  endure  : 

But  fire  makes  the  foulest  pure. 

" '  Behold  this  finish'd  funeral  pyre , 
All  ready  for  the  form  and  fire, 
Which  these,  my  own  hands,  did  prepare 
For  this  last  night ;  then  lay  me  there. 
I  would  not  hide  me  from  my  God 
Beneath  the  cold  and  sullen  sod, 
And  ever  from  the  circled  sun, 
As  if  in  shame  for  evil  done, 
But,  wrapped  in  fiery,  shining  shroud, 
Ascend  to  Him,  a  wreathing  cloud.' 

"  She  paused,  she  turn'd,  she  lean'd  apace 
Her  glance  and  half-regretting  face, 
As  if  to  yield  herself  to  me  ; 


230  THE    TALE   OF  THE 

And  then  she  cried,  '  It  cannot  be, 
For  I  have  vow'd  a  solemn  vow, 
And  God  help  me  to  keep  it  now  ! ' 

"  I  sprang  with  arms  extended  wide 
To  catch  her  to  my  burning  breast ; 
She  caught  a  dagger  from  her  side 
And  plunged  it  to  its  silver  hilt 
Into  her  hot  and  bursting  heart, 
And  fell  into  my  arms  and  died  — 
Died  as  my  soul  to  hers  was  press'd, 
Died  as  I  held  her  to  my  breast, 
Died  without  one  word  or  moan, 
And  left  me  with  my  dead  —  alone. 

"  But  why  the  dreary  tale  prolong  ? 
And  deem  you  I  confess'd  me  wrong, 
That  I  did  bend  a  patient  knee 
To  all  the  deep  wrongs  done  to  me  ? 
That  I,  because  the  prison-mould 
"Was  on  my  brow,  and  all  its  chill 
Was  in  my  heart  as  chill  as  night, 
Till  soul  and  body  both  were  cold, 
Did  curb  my  free-born  mountain  will 
And  sacrifice  my  sense  of  right? 


TALL  ALCALDE.  231 

"  No !  no !  and  had  they  come  that  day 
While  I  with  hands  and  garments  red 
Stood  by  her  pleading,  gory  clay, 
The  one  lone  watcher  by  my  dead, 
With  cross-hilt  dagger  in  my  hand, 
The  every  white  lord  of  the  land 
Who  wore  a  badge  or  claim'd  command, 
And  ofier'd  me  my  life  and  all 
Of  titles,  power,  or  of  place, 
I  should  have  spat  them  in  the  face, 
And  spurn'd  them  every  one. 
I  live  as  God  gave  me  to  live, 
I  see  as  God  gave  me  to  see. 
'Tis  not  my  nature  to  forgive, 
Or  cringe  and  plead,  and  bend  the  knee 
To  God  or  man  in  woe  or  weal, 
In  penitence  I  cannot  feel. 

"  I  do  not  question  school  nor  creed 
Of  Christian,  Protestant,  or  Priest; 
I  only  know  that  creeds  to  me 
Are  but  new  names  for  mystery, 
That  God  is  good  from  east  to  east, 
And  more  I  do  not  know  nor  need 


232  THE   TALE   OF  THE 

To  know,  to  love  my  neighbor  well. 
I  take  their  dogmas,  as  they  tell, 
Their  pictures  of  their  Godly  good, 
In  garments  thick  with  heathen  blood ; 
Their  heaven  with  its  harps  of  gold, 
Their  horrid  pictures  of  their  hell, 
Take  hell  and  heaven  undeniecl. 
Yet  were  the  two  placed  side  by  side, 
Placed  full  before  me  for  my  choice, 
As  they  are  pictured,  best  and  worst, 
As  they  are  peopled,  tame  and  bold, 
The  canonized,  and  the  accursed 
Who  dared  to  think,  and  thinking  speak, 
And  speaking  act,  bold  cheek  to  cheek, 
I  would  in  transports  choose  the  first, 
And  enter  hell  with  lifted  voice. 

"  I  laid  my  dead  upon  the  pile, 
And  underneath  the  lisping  oak 
I  watch' d  the  columns  of  dark  smoke 
Embrace  her  red  lips,  with  a  smile 
Of  frenzied  fierceness.     Then  there  came 
A  gleaming  column  of  red  flame, 
That  grew  a  grander  monument 


TALL  ALCALDE. 

Above  her  nameless  noble  mould, 
Than  ever  bronze  or  marble  lent 
To  king  or  conqueror  of  old. 

"  It  seized  her  in  its  hot  embrace, 
And  leapt  as  if  to  reach  the  stars. 
Then  looking  up  I  saw  a  face 
So  saintly  and  so  sweetly  fair, 
So  sad,  so  pitying,  and  so  pure, 
I  nigh  forgot  the  prison  bars, 
And  for  one  instant,  one  alone, 
I  felt  I  could  forgive,  endure. 

"  I  laid  a  circlet  of  white  stone, 
And  left  her  ashes  there  alone. 
But  after  many  a  white  moon-wane 
I  sought  that  sacred  ground  again, 
And  saw  the  circle  of  white  stone 
With  tall  wild  grasses  overgrown. 
I  did  expect,  I  know  not  why, 
From  out  her  sacred  dust  to  find 
Wild  pinks  and  daisies  blooming  fair ; 
And  when  I  did  not  find  them  there 
I  almost  deem'd  her  God  unkind, 
Less  careful  of  her  dust  than  I. 


THE    TALE   OF  THE 

"  Then  when  the  red  shafts  of  the  sun 
Came  tipping  down  to  where  I  stood, 
I  hail'd  them  with  a  redder  one, 
A  lifted  dagger  red  with  blood, 
And  vow'd  to  dedicate  my  breath 
To  vengeance,  for  disgrace  and  death. 


"  Go  read  the  annals  of  the  North, 
And  records  there  of  many  a  wail, 
Of  marshalling  and  going  forth 
For  missing  sheriffs,  and  for  men 
Who  fell,  and  none  knew  where  nor  when, 
Who  disappear' d  on  mountain  trail, 
Or  in  some  dense  and  narrow  vale. 
Go,  traverse  Trinity  and  Scott, 
That  curve  their  dark  backs  to  the  sun : 
Go,  court  them  all.     Lo !  have  they  not 
The  chronicles  of  my  wild  life  ? 
My  secrets  on  their  lips  of  stone, 
My  archives  built  of  human  bone  ? 
Go,  cross  their  wilds  as  I  have  done, 
From  snowy  crest  to  sleeping  vales, 


TALL  ALCALDE.  235 

And  you  will  find  on  every  one 
Enough  to  swell  a  thousand  tales. 

*  #  *  *  * 

"The  soul  cannot  survive  alone, 
And  hate  will  die,  like  other  things ; 
I  felt  an  ebbing  in  my  rage, 
I  hunger'd  for  the  sound  of  one, 
Just  one  familiar  word,  — 
Yearn'd  but  to  hear  my  fellow  speak, 
Or  sound  of  woman's  mellow  tone, 
As  beats  the  wild,  imprison'd  bird, 
That  long  nor  kind  nor  mate  has  heard, 
With  bleeding  wings 
And  panting  beak 
Against  its  iron  cage. 

"  I  saw  a  low-roof 'd  rancho  lie, 
Far,  far  below,  at  set  of  sun, 
Along  the  foot-hills  crisp  and  dun  — 
A  lone  sweet  star  in  lower  sky ; 
Saw  children  sporting  to  and  fro, 
The  busy  housewife  come  and  go, 
And  white  cows  come  at  her  command, 
And  none  look'd  larger  than  my  hand. 


230  THE   TALE   OF  THE 

Then  worn  and  torn,  and  tann'd  and  brown, 
And  heedless  all,  I  hasten'd  down ; 
A  wanderer  wandering  long  and  late, 
I  stood  before  the  rustic  gate. 

"  Two  little  girls,  with  brown  feet  bare, 
And  tangled,  tossing,  yellow  hair, 
Play'd  on  the  green,  fantastic  dress'd, 
Around  a  great  Newfoundland  brute 
That  lay  half-resting  on  his  breast, 
And  with  his  red  mouth  open'd  wide 
Would  make  believe  that  he  would  bite, 
As  they  assail'd  him  left  and  right, 
And  then  sprang  to  the  other  side, 
And  fill'd  with  shouts  the  willing  air. 
Oh  sweeter  far  than  lyre  or  lute 
To  my  then  hot  and  thirsty  heart, 
And  better  self  so  wholly  mute, 
Were  those  sweet  voices  calling  there. 

"  Though  some  sweet  scenes  my  eyes  have  seen, 
Some  melody  my  soul  has  heard, 
N"o  song  of  any  maid,  or  bird, 
Or  splendid  wealth  of  tropic  scene, 


TALL  ALCALDE.  237 

Or  scene  or  song  of  anywhere, 
Has  my  impulsive  soul  so  stirr'd, 
Or  touch  'd  and  thrill'd  my  every  part, 
Or  fill'd  me  with  such  sweet  delight, 
As  those  young  angels  sporting  there. 

"  The  dog  at  sight  of  me  arose, 
And  nobly  stood,  with  lifted  nose, 
Afront  the  children,  now  so  still, 
And  staring  at  me  with  a  will. 
4  Come  in,  come  in,'  the  rancher  cried, 
As  here  and  there  the  housewife  hied ; 
'  Sit  down,  sit  down,  you  travel  late. 
What  news  of  politics  or  war  ? 
And  are  you  tired  ?  Go  you  far  ? 
And  where  you  from  ?    Be  quick,  my  Kate, 
This  boy  is  sure  in  need  of  food.' 
The  little  children  close  by  stood, 
And  watch'd  and  gazed  inquiringly, 
Then  came  and  climb'd  upon  my  knee. 

" c  That  there 's  my  ma,'  the  eldest  said, 
And  laugh'd  and  toss'd  her  pretty  head  ; 
And  then,  half  bating  of  her  joy, 


238  THE   TALE   OF  THE 

4  Have  you  a  ma,  you  stranger  boy  ?  — 
And  there  hangs  Carlo  on  the  wall 
As  large  as  life ;  that  mother  drew 
With  berry  stains  upon  a  shred 
Of  tattered  tent ;  but  hardly  you 
Would  know  the  picture  his  at  all, 
For  Carlo 's  black,  and  this  is  red.' 
Again  she  laughed,  and  shook  her  head, 
And  showered  curls  all  out  of  place ; 
Then  sudden  sad,  she  raised  her  face 
To  mine,  and  tenderly  she  said, 
'  Have  you,  like  us,  a  pretty  home  V 
Have  you,  like  me,  a  dog  and  toy  ? 
Where  do  you  live,  and  whither  roam? 
And  where's  your  pa,  poor  stranger  boy  ? ' 

"  It  seem'd  so  sweetly  out  of  place 
Again  to  meet  my  fellow-man, 
I  gazed  and  gazed  upon  his  face 
As  something  I  had  never  seen. 
The  melody  of  woman's  voice 
Fell  on  my  ear  as  falls  the  rain 
Upon  the  weary,  waiting  plain. 
I  heard,  and  drank  and  drank  again, 


TALL  ALCALDE.  239 

As  earth  with  crack'd  lips  drinks  the  rain, 

In  green  to  revel  and  rejoice. 

I  ate  with  thanks  my  frugal  food, 

The  first  return' d  for  many  a  day. 

I  had  met  kindness  by  the  way ! 

I  had  at  last  encounter' d  good ! 

"  I  sought  my  couch,  but  not  to  sleep ; 
New  thoughts  were  coursing  strong  and  deep 
My  wild  impulsive  passion-heart ; 
I  could  not  rest,  my  heart  was  moved, 
My  iron  will  forgot  its  part, 
And  I  wept  like  a  child  reproved. 
Never  was  Christian  more  devout, 
Never  was  lowlier  heart  than  mine, 
Never  has  pious  Moslem  yet, 
When  bearded  Muezzin's  holy  shout 
Has  echoed  afar  from  minaret, 
Knelt  lowlier  down  to  saint  or  shrine, 
Than  knelt  that  penitent  soul  of  mine. 

"  I  lay  and  pictured  me  a  life 
Afar  from  cold  reproach  or  stain, 
Or  annals  dark  of  blood  and  strife, 


240  THE    TALE   OF  THE 

From  deadly  perils  or  heart-pain ; 
And  at  the  breaking  of  the  morn 
I  swung  my  arms  from  off  the  horn, 
And  turned  to  other  scenes  and  lands 
"With  lighten'd  heart  and  whiten'd  hands. 

"  Where  orange-blossoms  never  die, 
Where  red  fruits  ripen  all  the  year 
Beneath  a  sweet  and  balmy  sky, 
Far  from  my  language  or  my  land, 
Reproach,  regret,  or  shame  or  fear, 
I  came  in  hope,  I  wander'd  here  — 
Yes,  here  ;  and  this  red,  bony  hand 
That  holds  this  glass  of  ruddy  cheer  —  " 

"  'Tis  he ! "  hissed  the  crafty  advocate. 
He  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  hot  with  hate 
He  reached  his  hands,  and  he  called  aloud, 
"  'Tis  the  renegade  of  the  red  McCloud ! " 

Then  slow  the  Alcalde  rose  and  spoke, 
And  the  lightning  flash' d  from  a  cloud  of  hair, 
"  Hand  me,  touch  me,  him  who  dare !  " 
And  his  heavy  glass  on  the  board  of  oak 


TALL  ALCALDE.  241 

He  smote  with  such  savage  and  mighty  stroke, 

It  ground  to  dust  in  his  bony  hand, 

And  heavy  bottles  did  clink  and  tip 

As  if  an  earthquake  were  in  the  land. 

He  tower'd  up,  and  in  his  ire 

Seem'd  taller  than  any  church's  spire. 

He  gazed  a  moment  —  and  then,  the  while 

An  icy  cold  and  defiant  smile 

Did  curve  his  thin  and  his  livid  lip, 

He  turn'd  on  his  heel,  he  strode  through  the  hall 

Grand  as  a  god,  so  grandly  tall, 

And  white  and  cold  as  a  chisell'd  stone. 

He  pass'd  him  out  the  adobe  door 

Into  the  night,  and  he  pass'd  alone, 

And  never  was  known  nor  heard  of  more. 


1G 


KIT   CARSON'S  RIDE. 


Room!  Room  to  turn  round  in,  to  breathe  and  be  free, 
And  to  grow  to  be  giant,  to  sail  as  at  sea 
With  the  speed  of  the  wind  on  a  steed  with  his  mane 
To  the  wind,  without  pathway  or  route  or  a  rein. 
Room !  Room  to  be  free  where  the  white-bordered  sea 
Blows  a  kiss  to  a  brother  as  boundless  as  he; 
And  to  east  and  to  west,  to  the  north  and  the  sun, 
Slue  skies  and  brown  grasses  are  welded  as  one, 
And  the  buffalo  come  like  a  cloud  on  the  plain, 
Pouring  on  like  the  tide  of  a  storm-driven  main, 
And  the  lodge  of  the  hunter  to  friend  or  to  foe 
Offers  rest ;  and  unquestioned  you  come  or  you  go. 
My  plains  of  America !     Seas  of  wild  lands ! 
From  a  land  in  the  seas  in  a  raiment  of  foam, 
TJiat  has  reached  to  a  stranger  the  luelcome  of  home, 
I  turn  to  you,  lean  to  you,  lift  you  my  hands. 

LONDON,  1871. 


KIT   CARSON'S  RIDE. 


et  y°u  »  I  ratner  guess  so  ! 

But  he's  blind  as  a  badger.    Whoa,  Pache,  boy, 
whoa. 

No,  you  wouldn't  believe  it  to  look  at  his  eyes, 
But  he  is,  badger  blind,  and  it  happened  this  wise. 

"We  lay  in  the  grasses  and  the  sun-burnt  clover 
That  spread  on  the  ground  like  a  great  brown  cover 
Northward  and  southward,  and  west  -and  away 
To  the  Brazos,  to  where  our  lodges  lay, 
One  broad  and  unbroken  sea  of  brown, 
Awaiting  the  curtains  of  night  to  come  down 
To  cover  us  over  and  conceal  our  flight 
With  my  brown  bride,  won  from  an  Indian  town 
That  lay  in  the  rear  the  full  ride  of  a  night. 

"  We  lounged  in  the  grasses  —  her  eyes  were  in  mine, 
And  her  hands  on  my  knee,  and  her  hair  was  as  wine 


246  KIT  CARSON'S  RIDE. 

In  its  wealth  and  its  flood,  pouring  on  and  all  over 
Her  bosom  wine-red,  and  pressed  never  by  one ; 
And  her  touch  was  as  warm  as  the  tinge  of  the  clover 
Burnt  brown  as  it  reached  to  the  kiss  of  the  sun, 
And  her  words  were  as  low  as  the  lute-throated  dove, 
And  as  laden  with  love  as  the  heart  when  it  beats 
In  its  hot  eager  answer  to  earliest  love, 
Or  the  bee  hurried  home  by  its  burthen  of  sweets. 

"  We  lay  low  in  the  grass  on  the  broad  plain  levels, 
Old  Revels  and  I,  and  my  stolen  brown  bride ; 
And  the  heavens  of  blue  and  the  harvest  of  -brown 
And  beautiful  clover  were  welded  as  one, 
To  the  right  and  the  left,  in  the  light  of  the  sun. 
'  Forty  lull  miles  if  a  foot  to  ride, 
Forty  full  miles  if  a  foot,  and  the  devils 
Of  red  Camanches  are  hot  on  the  track 
When  once  they  strike  it.    Let  the  sun  go  down 
Soon,  very  soon,'  muttered  bearded  old  Revels 
As  he  peered  at  the  sun,  lying  low  on  his  back, 
Holding  fast  to  his  lasso.     Then  he  jerked  at  his  steed 
And  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  glanced  swiftly  around, 
And  then   dropped,  as  if  shot,  with   his   ear  to   the 
ground ; 


KIT  CARSOWS  RIDE.  247 

Then  again  to  his  feet,  and  to  me,  to  my  bride, 
While  his  eyes  were  like  fire,  his  face  like  a  shroud, 
His  form  like  a  king,  and  his  beard  like  a  cloud, 
And  his  voice  loud  and  shrill,  as  if  blown  from  a  reed,  — 
'  Pull,  pull  in  your  lassos,  and  bridle  to  steed, 
And  speed  you  if  ever  for  life  you  would  speed, 
And  ride  for  your  lives,  for  your  lives  you  must  ride ! 
For  the  plain  is  aflame,  the  prairie  on  fire, 
And  feet  of  wild  horses  hard  flying  before 
I  hear  like  a  sea  breaking  high  on  the  shore, 
While  the  buffalo  come  like  a  surge  of  the  sea, 
Driven  far  by  the  flame,  driving  fast  on  us  three 
As  a  hurricane  comes,  crushing  palms  in  his  ire.' 

"  We  drew  in  the  lassos,  seized  saddle  and  rein, 
Threw  them  on,  sinched  them  on,  sinched  them  over 

again, 

And  again  drew  the  girth,  cast  aside  the  macheers, 
Cut  away  tapidaros,  loosed  the  sash  from  its  fold, 
Cast  aside  the  catenas  red-spangled  with  gold, 
And  gold-mounted  Colt's,  the  companions  of  years, 
Cast  the  silken  scrapes  to  the  wind  in  a  breath, 
And   so  bared  to  the   skin   sprang  all  haste   to  the 

horse  — 


248  KIT  CARSOWS  RIDE. 

As  bare  as  when  born,  as  when  new  from  the  hand 
Of  God  —  without  word,  or  one  word  of  command. 
Turned  head  to  the  Brazos  in  a  red  race  with  death, 
Turned  head  to  the  Brazos  with  a  breath  in  the  hair 
Blowing  hot  from  a  king  leaving  death  in  his  course ; 
Turned  head  to  the  Brazos  with  a  sound  in  the  air 
Like  the  rush  of  an  army,  and  a  flash  in  the  eye 
Of  a  red  wall  of  fire  reaching  up  to  the  sky, 
Stretching  fierce  in  pursuit  of  a  black  rolling  sea 
Rushing  fast  upon  us,  as  the  wind  sweeping  free 
And  afar  from  the  desert  blew  hollow  and  hoarse. 

"  Not  a  word,  not  a  wail  from  a  lip  was  let  fall, 
Not  a  kiss  from  my  bride,  not  a  look  nor  low  call 
Of  love-note  or  courage ;  but  on  o'er  the  plain 
So  steady  and  still,  leaning  low  to  the  mane, 
With  the  heel  to  the  flank  and  the  hand  to  the  rein, 
Rode  we  on,  rode  we  three,  rode  we  nose  and  gray 

nose, 
Reaching  long,   breathing  loud,   as   a  creviced  wind 

blows : 

Yet  we  broke  not  a  whisper,  we  breathed  not  a  prayer, 
There  was  work  to  be  done,  there  was  death  in  the  air, 
And  the  chance  was  as  one  to  a  thousand  for  all. 


KIT  CARSOWS  RIDE.  249 

"  Gray  nose  to  gray  nose,  and  each  steady  mustang 
Stretched  neck  and  stretched  nerve  till  the  arid  earth 

rang, 
And  the  foam  from  the  flank  and  the  croup  and  the 

neck 

Flew  around  like  the  spray  on  a  storm-driven  deck. 
Twenty  miles!  .  .  .  thirty  miles!  ...  a  dim  distant 

speck  .  .  . 

Then  a  long  reaching  line,  and  the  Brazos  in  sight, 
And  I  rose  in  my  seat  with  a  shout  of  delight. 
I  stood  in  my  stirrup  and  looked  to  my  right  — 
But  Revels  was  gone ;  I  glanced  by  my  shoulder 
And  saw  his  horse  stagger ;  I  saw  his  head  drooping 
Hard  down  on  his  breast,  and  his  naked  breast  stoop 
ing 

Low  down  to  the  mane,  as  so  swifter  and  bolder 
Ran  reaching  out  for  us  the  red-footed  fire. 
To  right  and  to  left  the  black  buffalo  came, 
A  terrible  surf  on  a  red  sea  of  flame 
Rushing  on  in  the  rear,  reaching  high,  reaching  higher. 
And  he  rode  neck  to  neck  to  a  buffalo  bull, 
The  monarch  of  millions,  with  shaggy  mane  full 
Of  smoke  and  of  dust,  and  it  shook  with  desire 
Of  battle,  with  rage  and  with  bellowings  loud 


250  KIT  CARSOWS  RIDE. 

And  unearthly,  and  up  through  its  lowering  cloud 
Came  the  flash  of  his  eyes  like  a  half-hidden  fire, 
"While  his  keen  crooked  horns,  through  the  storm  of  his 

mane, 

Like  black  lances  lifted  and  lifted  again ; 
Ana  I  looked  but  this  once,  for  the  fire  licked  through, 
And  he  fell  and  was  lost,  as  we  rode  two  and  two. 

"I  looked  to  my  left  then  —  and  nose,  neck,  and 
shoulder 

N 

Sank  slowly,  sank  surely,  till  back  to  my  thighs ; 
And  up  through  the  black  blowing  veil  of  her  hair 
Did  beam  full  in  mine  her  two  marvellous  eyes, 
With  a  longing  and  love,  yet  a  look  of  despair 
And  of  pity  for  me,  as  she  felt  the  smoke  fold  her, 
And  flames  reaching  far  for  her  glorious  hair. 
Her  sinking  steed  faltered,  his  eager  ears  fell 
To  and  fro  and  unsteady,  and  all  the  neck's  swell 
Did  subside  and  recede,  and  the  nerves  fall  as  dead. 
Then  she  saw  sturdy  Pache  still  lorded  his  head, 
With  a  look  of  delight ;  for  nor  courage  nor  bribe, 
Nor  naught  but  my  bride,  could  have  brought    him 

to  me. 
For  he  was  her  father's,  and  at  South  Santafee 


KIT  CARSOWS  RIDE.  251 

X 

Had   once  won  a  whole   herd,  sweeping   every  thing 

down 

In  a  race  where  the  world  came  to  run  for  the  crown. 

• 

And  so  when  I  won  the  true  heart  of  my  bride  — 

My  neighbor's  and  deadliest  enemy's  child, 

And  child  of  the  kingly  war-chief  of  his  tribe  — 

She  brought  me  this  steed  to  the  border  the  night 

She  met  Revels  and  me  in  her  perilous  flight 

From  the  lodge  of  the  chief  to  the  North  Brazos  side ; 

And  said,  so  half  guessing  of  ill  as  she  smiled, 

As  if  jesting,  that  I,  and  I  only,  should  ride 

The  fleet-footed  Pache,  so  if  kin  should  pursue 

I  should  surely  escape  without  other  ado 

Than  to  ride,  without  blood,  to  the  North  Brazos  side, 

And  await  her  —  and  wait  till  the  next  hollow  moon 

Hung  her  horn  in  the  palms,  when  surely  and  soon 

And  swift  she  would  join  me,  and  all  would  be  well 

Without  bloodshed  or  word.     And  now  as  she  fell 

From  the  front,  and  went  down  in  the  ocean  of  fire, 

The  last  that  I  saw  was  a  look  of  delight 

That  I  should  escape  —  a  love  —  a  desire  — 

Yet  never  a  word,  not  one  look  of  appeal, 

Lest  I  should  reach  hand,  should  stay  hand  or  stay  heel 

One  instant  for  her  in  my  terrible  flight. 


252  KIT  CARSOWS  RIDE. 

"  Then  the  rushing  of  fire  around  me  and  under, 
And  the  howling  of  beasts  and  a  sound  as  of  thunder — 
Beasts  burning  and  blind  and  forced  onward  and  over, 
As  the  passionate  flame  reached  around  them,  and  wove 

her 

Red  hands  in  their  hair,  and  kissed  hot  till  they  died  — 
Till  they  died  with  a  wild  and  a  desolate  moan, 
As  a  sea  heart-broken  on  the  hard  brown  stone  .  .  . 
And  into  the  Brazos  ...  I  rode  all  alone  — 
All  alone,  save  only  a  horse  long-limbed, 
And  blind  and  bare  and  burnt  to  the  skin. 
Then  just  as  the  terrible  sea  came  in 
And  tumbled  its  thousands  hot  into  the  tide, 
Till  the  tide  blocked  up  and  the  swift  stream  brimmed 
In  eddies,  we  struck  on  the  opposite  side. 

****** 

"  Sell  Pache  —  blind  Pache  ?    Now,  mister,  look  here, 
You  have  slept  in  my  tent  and  partook  of  my  cheer 
Many  days,  many  days,  on  this  rugged  frontier, 
For  the  ways  they  were  rough  and  Camanches  were 

near ; 

But  you  'd  better  pack  up,  sir !     That  tent  is  too  small 
For  us  two  after  this  !     Has  an  old  mountaineer, 
Do  you  book-men  believe,  got  no  turn-turn  at  all  ? 


KIT  CARSOWS  RIDE.  253 

Sell  Pache !     You  buy  him !    A  bag  full  of  gold ! 
You  show  him !     Tell  of  him  the  tale  I  have  told ! 
Why,  he  bore  me  through  fire,  and  is  blind,  and  is  old ! 
.  .  .  Now  pack  up  your  papers,  and  get  up  and  spin 
To  them  eities  you  tell  of ...  Blast  you  and  your  tin ! " 


TTHiyiiisr 

&JFOICCS* 


BURNS  AND   BYRON. 


Eld  Druid  oaks  of  Ayr! 
Precepts  !  Poems  !  Pages  ! 
Lessons  !  Leaves,  and  Volumes  ! 
Arches  !  Pillars  !   Columns 
In  corridors  of  ages  ! 
Grand  patriarchal  sages 
Lifting  palms  in  prayer  ! 

The  Druid  beards  are  drifting 
And  shifting  to  and  fro, 
In  gentle,  breezes  lifting, 
That  bat-like  come  and  go, 
The  while  the  moon  is  sifting 
A  sheen  of  shining  snow 
On  all  these  blossoms  lifting 
Their  blue  eyes  from  below. 

No,  'tis  not  phantoms  ivalking 
That  you  hear  rustling  there, 
But  bearded  Druids  talking, 
And  turning  leaves  in  prayer. 
No,  not  a  night-bird  singing, 
Nor  breeze  the  broad  bough  swinging, 
But  that  bough  holds  a  censer, 
And  swings  it  to  and  fro. 
'Tis  Sunday  eve  remember, 
That 's  why  they  chant  so  low. 


AYR,  1870. 


BURNS  AND  BYRON. 


NOTE. 

THE  day  before  my  departure  for  Europe  last  summer,  a  small  party 
sailed  out  to  the  beautiful  sea-front  of  Saucelito,  lying  in  the  great  Bay 
of  San  Francisco,  forever  green  in  its  crown  of  California  laurel;  and 
there  the  fairest  hands  of  the  youngest  and  fairest  city  of  the  N«rw  World 
wove  a  wreath  of  bay  for  the  tomb  of  Byron.  I  brought  it  over  the 
Rocky  Mountains,  and  the  seas,  and  placed  it  above  the  c  list  of  the 
soldier-poet,  as  desired.  The  wreath  hangs  now  on  the  dark  and  dusty 
wall  of  the  church  at  Hucknall  Tokard  above  the  tattered  coat-of-arms 
of  the  Byrons,  and  the  small  stained  tablet  placed  there  by  the  Poet's 
sister. 

Having  come  directly  from  Dumfries,  I  am  bound  to  say  that  the  con 
trast  between  the  tombs  of  the  two  immortal  poets  was  at  least  remark 
able. 

But  in  my  pilgrimage  to  places  sacred  to  the  memory  of  Burns,  I  found 
none  equal  in  interest  to  Ayr,  the  Doon,  and  their  environs ;  perhaps  it 
was  because  these  places  witnessed  his  birth,  and  his  hard  life's  battles. 

T   LINGER  in  the  autumn  noon, 
I  listen  to  the  partridge  call, 
I  watch  the  yellow  leaflets  fall 
And  drift  adown  the  dimpled  Doon. 
I  lean  me  o'er  the  ivy-grown 
Old  brig,  where  Vandal  tourists'  tools 
17 


258  BURNS  AND  BYRON. 

Have  ribb'd  out  names  that  would  be  known, 
Are  known  —  known  as  a  herd  of  fools. 

Down  Ailsa  Craig  the  sun  declines, 

With  lances  levell'd  here  and  there  — 
The  tinted  thorns  !  the  trailing  vines ! 

0  braes  of  Doon !  so  fond,  so  fair ! 
So  passing  fair,  so  more  than  fond ! 
The  Poet's  place  of  birth  beyond, 

Beyond  the  mellow  bells  of  Ayr ! 

1  hear  the  milk-maid's  twilight  song 
Come  bravely  through  the  storm-bent  oaks ; 
Beyond,  the  white  surf's  sullen  strokes 

Beat  in  a  chorus  deep  and  strong ; 
I  hear  the  sounding  forge  afar, 
And  rush  and  rumble  of  the  car, 

The  steady  tinkle  of  the  bell 
Of  lazy,  laden,  home-bound  cows 
That  stop  to  bellow  and  to  browse ; 

I  breathe  the  soft  sea-wind  as  well, 
And  now  would  fain  arouse,  arise ; 
I  count  the  red  lights  in  the  skies ; 

I  yield  as  to  a  fairy  spell. 


BURNS  AND  BYRON.  259 

Heard  ye  the  feet  of  flying  horse  ? 
Heard  ye  the  bogles  in  the  air 
That  clutch  at  Tarn  O'Shanter's  mare, 

That  flies  this  mossy  brig  across  ? 


O  Burns !  where  bid  ?  where  bide  you  now  ? 
Where  are  you  in  this  night's  full  noon, 
Great  master  of  the  pen  and  plough  ? 
Might  you  not  on  yon  slanting  beam 
Of  moonlight,  kneeling  to  the  Doon, 
Descend  once  to  this  hallow'd  stream  ? 
Sure  yon  stars  yield  enough  of  light 
For  heaven  to  spare  your  face  one  night. 


O  Burns !  another  name  for  song, 
Another  name  for  passion  —  pride ; 
For  love  and  poesy  allied ; 
For  strangely  blended  right  and  wrong. 


I  picture  you  as  one  who  kneel'd 
A  stranger  at  his  own  hearthstone ; 
One  knowing  all,  yet  all  unknown, 


260  BURNS  AND  BYRON. 

One  seeing  all,  yet  all  conceal'd ; 

The  fitful  years  you  linger'd  here, 

A  lease  of  peril  and  of  pain  ; 

And  I  am  thankful  yet  again 

The  gods  did  love  you,  ploughman!  peer! 

In  all  your  own  and  other  lands, 
I  hear  your  touching  songs  of  cheer ; 
The  peasant  and  the  lordly  peer 
Above  your  honor'd  dust  strike  hands. 

A  touch  of  tenderness  is  shown 
In  this  unselfish  love  of  Ayr, 
And  it  is  well,  you  earn'd  it  fair ; 
For  all  unhelmeted,  alone, 
You  proved  a  ploughman's  honest  claim 
To  battle  in  the  lists  of  fame  ; 
You  earn'd  it  as  a  warrior  earns 
His  laurels  fighting  for  his  land, 
And  died  —  it  was  your  right  to  go. 
O  eloquence  of  silent  woe ! 
The  Master  leaning  reach'd  a  hand, 
And  whisper'd,  "  It  is  finish'd,  Burns ! " 


BURNS  AND  BYRON.  261 

O  sad,  sweet  singer  of  a  Spring ! 
Yours  was  a  chill  uncheerful  May, 
And  you  knew  no  full  days  of  June ; 
You  ran  too  swiftly  up  the  way, 
And  wearied  soon,  so  over-soon ! 
You  sang  in  weariness  and  woe ; 
You  falter'd,  and  God  heard  you  sing, 
Then  touch'd  your  hand  and  led  you  so, 
You  found  life's  hill-top  low,  so  low, 
You  cross'd  its  summit  long  ere  noon. 
Thus  sooner  than  one  would  suppose 
Some  weary  feet  will  find  repose. 


O  cold  and  cruel  Nottingham ! 
In  disappointment  and  in  tears, 
Sad,  lost,  and  lonely,  here  I  am 
To  question,  "  Is  this  Nottingham, 
Of  which  I  dream' d  for  years  and  years  ? 
I  seek  in  vain  for  name  or  sign 
Of  him  who  made  this  mould  a  shrine, 
A  Mecca  to  the  fair  and  fond 
Beyond  the  seas,  and  still  beyond. 


262  BURNS  AND  BYRON. 

Where  white  clouds  crush  their  drooping  wings 
Against  the  snow-crown 'd  battlements, 
And  peaks  that  flash  like  silver  tents  ; 
Where  Sacramento's  fountain  springs, 
And  proud  Columbia  frets  his  shore 
Of  sombre,  boundless  wood  and  wold, 
And  lifts  his  yellow  sands  of  gold 
In  plaintive  murmurs  evermore ; 
Where  snowy  dimpled  Tahoe  smiles, 
And  where  white  breakers  from  the  sea, 
In  solid  phalanx  knee  to  knee, 
Surround  the  calm  Pacific  Isles, 
Then  run  and  reach  unto  the  land 
And  spread  their  thin  palms  on  the  sand,  — 
Is  he  supreme  —  there  understood  : 
The  free  can  understand  the  free, 
The  brave  and  good  the  brave  and  good. 

Yea,  he  did  sin ;  who  hath  reveal'd 
That  he  was  more  than  man,  or  less  ? 
Yet  sinn'd  no  more,  but  less  conceal'd 
Than  they  who  cloak'd  their  follies  o'er, 
And  then  cast  stones  in  his  distress. 
He  scorn'd  to  make  the  good  seem  more, 


BURNS  AND  BYRON.  263 

Or  make  the  bitter  sin  seem  less. 
And  so  his  very  manliness 
The  seeds  of  persecution  bore. 

When  all  his  fervid  wayward  love 
Brought  back  no  olive-branch  or  dove, 
Or  love  or  trust  from  any  one, 
Proud,  all  unpitied  and  alone 
He  lived  to  make  himself  unknown, 
Disdaining  love  and  yielding  none. 
Like  some  high-lifted  sea-girt  stone 
That  could  not  stoop,  but  all  the  days, 
"With  proud  brow  turning  to  the  breeze, 
Felt  seas  blown  from  the  south,  and  seas 
Blown  from  the  north,  and  many  ways, 
He  stood  —  a  solitary  light 
In  stormy  seas  and  settled  night  — 
Then  fell,  but  stirr'd  the  seas  as  far 
As  winds  and  waves  and  waters  are. 

The  meek-eyed  stars  are  cold  and  white 
And  steady,  fix'd  for  all  the  years  ; 
The  comet  burns  the  wings  of  night, 
And  dazzles  elements  and  spheres, 


264  BURNS  AND  BYRON. 

Then  dies  in  beauty  and  a  blaze 

Of  light,  blown  far  through  other  days. 

The  poet's  passion,  sense  of  pride, 
His  sentiment,  the  wooing  throng 
Of  sweet  temptations  that  betide 
The  wild  and  wayward  child  of  song, 
The  world  knows  not :  I  lift  a  hand 
To  ye  who  know,  who  understand. 

In  men  whom  men  condemn  as  ill 
I  find  so  much  of  goodness  still, 
In  men  whom  men  pronounce  divine 
I  find  so  much  of  sin  and  blot, 
I  hesitate  to  draw  a  line 
Between  the  two,  where  God  has  not. 
***** 

In  sad  but  beautiful  decay 
Gray  Hucknall  kneels  into  the  dust, 
And,  cherishing  her  sacred  trust, 
Does  blend  her  clay  with  lordly  clay. 

The  ancient  Abbey's  breast  is  broad, 
And  stout  her  massive  walls  of  stone ; 


BURNS  AND  BYRON.  265 

But  let  him  lie,  repose  alone 
Ungather'd  with  the  great  of  God, 
In  dust,  by  his  fierce  fellow-man. 
Some  one,  some  day,  loud-voiced  will  speak 
And  say  the  broad  breast  was  not  broad, 
The  walls  of  stone  were  all  too  weak 
To  hold  the  proud  dust,  in  their  plan ; 
The  hollow  of  God's  great  right  hand 
Receives  it ;  let  it  rest  with  God. 

No  sign  or  cryptic  stone  or  cross 
Unto  the  passing  world  has  said, 
"  He  died,  and  we  deplore  his  loss." 
No  sound  of  sandall'd  pilgrim's  tread 
Disturbs  the  pilgrim's  peaceful  rest, 
Or  frets  the  proud  impatient  breast. 
The  bat  flits  through  the  broken  pane, 
The  black  swift  swallow  gathers  moss, 
And  builds  in  peace  above  his  head, 
Then  goes,  then  comes,  and  builds  again. 
And  it  is  well ;  not  otherwise 
Would  he,  the  grand  sad  singer,  will. 
The  serene  peace  of  paradise 
He  sought  —  'tis  his  —  the  storm  is  still. 


?.66  BURNS  AND  BYRON. 

'    Secure  in  his  eternal  fame, 
And  blended  pity  and  respect, 
He  does  not  feel  the  cold  neglect, 
And  England  does  not  fear  the  shame. 

NOTTINGHAM,  1870. 


MYRRH. 


Life  knows  no  dead  so  beautiful 
As  is  the  white  cold  coffin V/  past ; 
This  I  may  love  nor  be  betrayed : 
The  dead  are  faithful  to  the  last. 
I  am  not  spouseless  —  /  have  wed 
A  memory  —  a  life  that 's  dead. 


MYRRH. 

ARE  WELL !  for  here  the  ways  at  last 

Divide  —  diverge,  like  delta'd  Nile, 
Which  after  desert  dangers  pass'd 
Of  many  and  many  a  thousand  mile, 
As  constant  as  a  column  stone, 
Seeks  out  the  sea,  divorced  —  alone. 

And  you  and  I  have  buried  Love, 
A  red  seal  on  the  coffin's  lid ; 
The  clerk  below,  the  Court  above, 
Pronounced  it  dead :  the  corpse  is  hid. 
And  I  who  never  crossed  your  will 
Consent  .  . .  that  you  may  have  it  still. 

Farewell !   a  sad  word  easy  said 
And  easy  sung,  I  think,  by  some  .  .  . 
...  I  clutched  my  hands,  I  turned  my  head 
In  my  endeavor,  and  was  dumb ; 


270  MYRRH. 

And  when  I  should  have  said,  Farewell, 
I  only  murmur'd,  "  This  is  hell." 

What  recks  it  now  whose  was  the  blame  ? 
But  call  it  mine ;  for  better  used 
Am  I  to  wrong  and  cold  disdain, 
Can  better  bear  to  be  accused 
Of  all  that  wears  the  shape  of  shame, 
Than  have  you  bear  one  touch  of  blame. 

I  know  yours  was  the  lighter  heart, 
And  yours  the  hope  of  grander  meed  ; 
Yet  did  I  falter  in  my  part  ? 
But  there  is  weakness  in  defeat, 
And  I  had  felt  its  iron  stride 
While  your  young  feet  were  yet  untried. 

I  set  my  face  for  power  and  place, 
My  soul  is  toned  to  sullenness, 
My  heart  holds  not  one  sign  nor  trace 
Of  love,  or  trust,  or  tenderness. 
But  you  —  your  years  of  happiness 
God  knows  I  would  not  make  them  less. 


MYRRH.  271 

And  yet  it  were  a  bootless  strife ; 
Too  soon  and  sudden  up  the  way 
I  hurried  in  the  spring  of  life, 
And  wearied  ere  the  noon  of  day. 
I  did  not  reach — was  it  a  crime 
That  my  life  knew  no  summer-time  ? 

And  you  will  come  some  summer  eve, 
When  wheels  the  white  moon  on  her  track, 
And  hear  the  plaintive  night-bird  grieve, 
And  heed  the  crickets  clad  in  black ; 
Alone  —  not  far  —  a  little  spell, 
And  say,  "  Well,  yes,  he  loved  me  well ; " 

And  sigh,  "  Well,  yes,  I  mind  me  now, 
None  were  so  bravely  true  as  he  ; 
And  yet  his  love  was  tame  somehow, 
It  was  so  truly  true  to  me ; 
I  wished  his  patient  love  had  less 
Of  worship  and  of  tenderness  : 

"  I  wish  it  still,  for  thus  alone 
There  comes  a  keen  reproach  or  pain, 
A  feeling  I  dislike  to  own ; 


272  MYRRH. 

Half  yearnings  for  his  voice  again, 
Half  longings  for  his  earnest  gaze, 
To  know  him  mine  always  —  always." 

*         =&         *         *         % 

I  make  no  murmur :   steady,  calm, 
Sphinx-like  I  gaze  on  days  ahead. 
No  wooing  word,  no  pressing  palm, 
No  sealing  love  with  lips  seal-red, 
No  waiting  for  some  dusk  or  dawn, 
Or  sacred  hour  ...  all  are  gone. 

I  go  alone  :  no  little  hands 
To  lead  me  from  forbidden  ways, 
No  little  voice  in  other  lands 
Shall  cheer  through  all  the  weary  days ; 
Yet  these  are  yours,  and  that  to  me 
Is  much  indeed  ...  So  let  it  be  ... 

...  A  last  look  from  my  mountain  wall 
I  watch  the  red  sun  wed  the  sea 
Beside  your  home  .  .  .  the  tides  will  fall 
And  rise,  but  nevermore  shall  we 
Stand  hand  in  hand  and  watch  them  flow, 
As  we  once  stood  .      .  Christ !   this  is  so  ! 


MYRRH.  273 

But,  when  the  stately  sea  comes  in 
With  measured  tread  and  mouth  afoam, 
My  darlings  cry  above  the  din, 
And  ask,  "  Has  father  yet  come  home  ?  " 
Then  look  into  the  peaceful  sky, 
And  answer,  gently,  "  By  and  by." 
***** 

One  deep  spring  in  a  desert  sand, 
One  mossed  and  mystic  pyramid, 
A  lonely  palm,  on  either  hand, 
A  fountain  in  a  forest  hid, 
Are  all  my  life  has  realized 
Of  all  I  cherish'd,  all  I  prized  : 

Of  all  I  dream'd  in  early  youth 
Of  love  by  streams  and  love-lit  ways, 
While  my  heart  held  its  type  of  truth 
Through  all  the  tropic  golden  days, 
And  I  the  oak,  and  you  the  vine, 
Clung  palm  in  palm  through  cloud  or  shine. 

Some  time  when  clouds  hang  overhead, 
(What  weary  skies  without  one  cloud  !  ) 
You  may  muse  on  this  love  that 's  dead, 

18 


274  MYRRH. 

Muse  calm  when  not  so  young  or  proud, 
And  say,  "  At  last  it  comes  to  me, 
That  none  was  ever  true  as  he." 

My  sin  was  that  I  loved  so  much  — 
But  I  enlisted  for  the  war, 
Till  we  the  deep-sea  shore  should  touch, 
Beyond  Atlanta  —  near  or  far  — 
And  truer  soldier  never  yet 
Bore  shining  sword  or  bayonet. 

I  did  not  blame  you  —  do  not  blame. 
The  stormy  elements  of  soul 
That  I  did  scorn  to  tone  or  tame, 
Or  bind  down  unto  dull  control 
In  full  fierce  youth,  they  all  are  yours, 
With  all  their  folly  and  their  force. 

God  keep  you  pure,  oh,  very  pure, 
God  give  you  grace  to  dare  and  do  ; 
God  give  you  courage  to  endure 
The  all  He  may  .demand  of  you, 
Keep  time-frosts  from  your  raven  hair, 
And  your  young  heart  without  a  care. 


MYRRH.  275 

I  make  no  murmur  nor  complain ; 
Above  me  are  the  stars  and  blue 
Alluring  far  to  grand  refrain ; 
Before,  the  beautiful  and  true, 
To  love  or  hate,  to  win  or  lose ; 
Lo !  I  will  now  arise,  and  choose. 

But  should  you  sometime  read  a  sign, 
A  name  among  the  princely  few, 
In  isles  of  song  beyond  the  brine, 
Then  you  will  think  a  time,  and  you 
Will  turn  and  say,  "  He  once  was  mine, 
Was  all  my  own ;  his  smiles,  his  tears 
Were  mine  —  were  mine  for  years  and  years." 

Blue  Mountains,  Oregon,  1870. 


EVEN    SO. 


Sierras,  and  eternal  tents 
Of  snow  that  flash  o'er  battlements 
Of  mountains !    My  land  of  the  sun, 
Am  I  not  true  ?  have  I  not  done 
All  things  for  thine,  for  thee  alone, 
0  sun-land,  sea-land,  tJiou  mine  own  ? 
From  other  loves  and  other  lands, 
As  true,  perhaps,  as  strong  of  hands, 
Have  I  not  turned  to  thee  and  thine, 
0  sun-land  of  the  palm  and  pine, 
And  sung  thy  scenes,  surpassing  skies, 
Till  Europe  lifted  up  her  face 
And  marvelled  at  thy  matchless  grace, 
With  eager  and  inquiring  eyes  ? 
Be  my  reward  some  little  place 
To  pitch  my  tent,  some  tree  and  vine 
Where  I  may  sit  above  the  sea, 
And  drink  the  sun  as  drinking  wine, 
And  dream,  or  sing  some  songs  of  thee ; 
Or  days  to  climb  to  Shasta's  dome 
Again,  and  be  with  gods  at  home, 
Salute  my  mountains,  —  clouded  Hood, 
Saint  Helens  in  its  sea  of  wood,  — 
Where  sweeps  the  Oregon,  and  where 
White  storms  are  in  the  feathered  fir. 


ATHENS,  1870. 


EVEN  SO. 

O  HE  was  not  full  tall,  was  not  fairer  than  others, 

But  there  was  in  her  eyes,  so  proud  and  glorious, 
A  dream,  a  wonder,  a  dangerous  witchery ; 
And  when  into  yours  they  did  look  steadfastly 
With  a  longing  and  trust  as  if  asking  sympathy, 
As  in  talk,  low-voiced,  with  your  soul  in  confidence, 
While  her  rich  full  lips,  red-pouting  and  luscious, 
Kept  forth  sweet-blended  their  mirth  and  sentiment, 
A  battery  shelter'd  by  a  brown  flood  of  tresses, 
That  lay  or  lifted  in  the  warm  winds  fretted 
About  a  brow  of  most  marvellous  beauty  — 
You  were  less  of  a  man  than  I  should  desire 
To  know  much  of,  to  have  been  unmoved. 

Where  pine-tops  toss  curly  clouds  to  heaven 
And  shake  them  far  like  to  downs  of  thistle, 
In  a  rift  of  canon  cleft  so  asunder 
That  it  seem'd  as  'twere  earth's  lips  half  open'd 
Where  men  wrought  gold  from  the  rock-ribb'd  moun 
tain, 


28o  EVEN  SO. 

She  patient  abode  with  her  faithful  mother. 

And  brawny  giants,  men  brown'd  and  bearded, 

Did  bless  the  brown  earth  as  she  walk'd  upon  it, 

And  call  her  more  pure  than  their  yellow  gold  treasures. 

By  the  trails  sometimes  that  wound  round  the  moun 
tain 

Above  brave  men  toiling  long  at  the  sluices, 
The  cheery  girl  passing  would  kind  and  playful 
Call  to  them  all  kind  words  of  encouragement, 
Then  awake  the  echoes  of  the  frowning  mountains 
With  gushing  laugh  at  their  honest  answers, 
And  pass  then  on  in  a  blaze  of  glory. 
They,  blessing  her  heart,  would  then  put  from  them 
Their  coarser  thoughts,  and,  bent  to  the  boulders, 
Would  recall  fair  faces  far  over  the  water, 
And  be,  for  her,  the  happier  and  better 
For  many  and  many  a  day  thereafter. 

In  the  shadows  a-west  of  the  sunset  mountains, 
Where  old-time  giants  had  dwelt  and  peopled, 
And  built  up  cities  and  castled  battlements, 
And  rear'd  up  pillars  that  pierced  the  heavens, 
A  poet  dwelt,  of  the  book  of  Nature  — 


EVEN  SO.  281 

An  ardent  lovei  of  the  pure  and  beautiful, 
Devoutest  lover  of  the  true  and  beautiful, 
Profoundest  lover  of  the  grand  and  beautiful  — 
With  a  heart  all  impulse,  intensest  passion, 
Who  believed  in  love  as  in  God  Eternal  — 
A  dream  while  the  waken'd  world  went  over, 
An  Indian  summer  of  the  sullen  seasons ; 
And  he  sang  wild  songs  like  the  wind  in  cedars, 
Was  tempest-toss'd  as  the  pines,  yet  ever 
As  fix'd  in  truth  as  they  in  the  mountains. 

He  had  heard  her  name  as  one  hears  of  a  princess, 
Her  glory  had  come  unto  him  in  stories ; 
From  afar  he  had  look'd  as  entranced  upon  her ; 
He  gave  her  name  to  the  wind  in  measures, 
And  he  heard  her  name  in  the  deep-voiced  cedars, 
And  afar  in  the  winds  rolling  on  like  the  billows. 
Her  name  in  the  name  of  another  for  ever 
Gave  all  his  numbers  their  grandest  strophes  ; 
He  enshrined  her  image  in  his  heart's  high  temple, 
And  saint-like  held  her,  too  sacred  for  mortal. 
****** 

He  came  to  fall  like  a  king  of  the  forest 
Caught  in  the  strong  stormy  arms  of  the  wrestler ; 


282  EVEN  SO. 

Forgetting  his  songs,  Ms  crags  and  his  mountains, 

And  nearly  his  God,  in  his  wild  deep  passion ; 

And  when  he  had  won  her  and  turn'd  him  homeward, 

With  the  holiest  pledges  love  gives  its  lover, 

The  mountain  route  was  as  strewn  with  roses. 

Can  a  high  love  then  be  a  thing  unholy, 

To  make  us  better  and  bless'd  supremely  ? 

The  day  was  fix'd  for  the  feast  and  nuptials ; 

He  crazed  with  impatience  at  the  tardy  hours  ; 

He  flew  in  the  face  of  old  Time  as  a  tyrant : 

He  had  fought  the  days  that  stood  still  between  them, 

One  by  one,  as  you  fight  with  a  foeman, 

Had  they  been  animate  and  sensate  beings. 


At  last  then  the  hour  came  coldly  forward. 
When  Mars  was  trailing  his  lance  on  the  mountains 
He  rein'd  his  steed  and  look'd  down  in  the  canon 
To  where  she  dwelt,  with  a  heart  of  fire ; 
He  kiss'd  his  hand  to  the  smoke  slow  curling, 
Then  bow'd  his  head  in  devoutest  blessing. 
His  spotted  courser  did  plunge  and  fret  him 
Beneath  his  gay  and  silk-fringed  carona, 
And  toss  his  neck  in  a  black  mane  banner'd ; 


EVEN  SO.  283 

Then  all  afoam,  plunging  iron-footed, 
Dash'd  him  adown  with  a  wild  impatience. 

A  coldness  met  him,  like  the  breath  of  a  cavern, 
As  he  joyously  hasten'd  across  the  threshold. 
She  came,  and  coldly  she  spoke  and  scornful, 
In  answer  to  warm  and  impulsive  passion. 
All  things  did  array  them  in  shapes  most  hateful, 
And  life  did  seem  but  a  jest  intolerable. 
He  dared  to  question  her  why  this  estrangement : 
She  spoke  with  a  strange  and  stiff  indifference, 
And  bade  him  go  on  all  alone  life's  journey. 

Stern  then  and  tall  he  did  stand  up  before  her, 
And  gaze  dark-brow'd  through  the  low  narrow  casement 
For  a  time,  as  if  warring  in  thought  with  a  passion ; 
Then,  crushing  hard  down  the  hot  welling  bitterness, 
He  folded  his  form  in  a  sullen  silentness 
And  turn'd  for  ever  away  from  her  presence : 
Bearing  his  sorrow  like  some  great  burden, 
Like  a  black  night-mare  in  his  hot  heart  muffled ; 
With  his  faith  in  the  truth  of  woman  all  shatter'd 
Like  the  shell  of  the  cocoa  dash'd  to  pieces 
On  the  stones  below  from  its  stately  bower. 


284  EVEN  SO. 

He  heard  a  laughter  as  if  in  mockery, 

And,  vaulting  his  saddle,  he  did  take  his  journey 

Through  the  densest  wood  by  the  darkest  windings, 

As  the  things  best  fitting  his  fate  and  humor, 

And  hurl'd  a  curse  back  over  his  shoulder. 

Another  had  woo'd  her,  one  gay,  of  earth  earthy, 

Another  had  won  her,  a  gay  dashing  soldier  — 

With  gold  epaulets  and  a  uniform  polish'd, 

With  sword  and  red  sash,  and  a  tongue  swift  and  ready 

With  loud  talk  of  battles,  of  fine  deeds  of  daring, 

That  wins  so  most  willing  the  ear  of  all  women, 

He  did  win  this  jewel  from  the  lordly  mountain, 

Of  its  wealth  never  counting,  its  worth  never  dreaming, 

In  truth  not  possessing  one  sense  so  accomplished 

He  could  know  its  value  had  it  all  been  told  him. 


'Mid  Theban  pillars,  where  sang  the  Pindar, 
Breathing  the  breath  of  the  Grecian  islands, 
Breathing  in  spices  and  olive  and  myrtle, 
Counting  the  caravans,  curl'd  and  snowy, 
Slow  journeying  over  his  head  to  Mecca 
Or  the  high  Christ-land  of  most  holy  memory, 
Counting  the  clouds  through  the  boughs  above  him, 


EVEN  SO.  285 

That  brush'd  white  marbles  that  time  had  chisell'd 
And  reared  as  tombs  on  the  great  dead  city, 
Letter'd  with  solemn  but  unread  moral  — 
A  poet  rested  in  the  red-hot  summer. 
He  took  no  note  of  the  things  about  him, 
But  dream'd  and  counted  the  clouds  above  him ; 
His  soul  was  troubled,  and  his  sad  heart's  Mecca 
Was  a  miner's  home  far  over  the  ocean, 
Banner'd  by  pines  that  did  brush  the  heavens. 

When  the  sun  went  down  on  the  bronzed  Morea, 
He  read  to  himself  from  the  lines  of  sorrow 
That  came  as  a  wail  from  the  one  he  worshipp'd, 
Sent  over  the  seas  by  an  old  companion  : 
They  spoke  no  word  of  him,  or  remembrance. 
And  he  was  sad,  for  he  felt  forgotten, 
And  said :  "  In  the  leaves  of  her  fair  heart's  album 
She  has  cover'd  my  face  with  the  face  of  another. 
Let  the  great  sea  lift  like  a  wall  between  us, 
High-back'd,  with  his  mane  of  white  storms  for  ever  — 
I  shall  learn  to  love,  I  shall  wed  my  sorrow, 
I  shall  take  as  a  spouse  the  days  that  are  perish'd  ; 
I  shall  dwell  in  a  land  where  the  march  of  genius 
Made  tracks  in  marble  in  the  days  of  giants ; 


286  EVEN  SO. 

I  shall  sit  in  the  ruins  where  sat  the  Marius, 
Gray  with  the  ghosts  of  the  great  departed." 
And  then  he  said  in  the  solemn  twilight  .  .  . 


"  Strangely  wooing  are  the  worlds  above  us, 
Strangely  beautiful  is  the  Faith  of  Islam, 
Strangely  sweet  are  the  songs  of  Solomon, 
Strangely  tender  are  the  teachings  of  Jesus, 
Strangely  cold  is  the  sun  on  the  mountains, 
Strangely  mellow  is  the  moon  in  old  ruins, 
Strangely  pleasant  are  the  stolen  waters, 
Strangely  simple  and  unwooing  is  virtue, 
Strangely  lighted  is  the  North  night-region, 
Strangely  strong  are  the  streams  in  the  ocean, 
Strangely  true  are  the  tales  of  the  Orient, 
Strangely  winning  is  a  dark-eyed  widow, 
Strangely  wayward  are  the  ways  of  lovers, 
But  stranger  than  all  are  the  ways  of  women." 

His  head  on  his  hands  and  his  hands  on  the  marble, 
Alone  in  the  moonlight  he  slept  in  the  ruins ; 
And  a  form  was  before  him  white-mantled  in  moonlight 
And  bitter  he  said  to  the  one  he  had  worshipped :  — 


EVEN  SO.  23; 

"  Your  hands  in  mine,  your  face,  your  eyes 
Look  level  into  mine,  and  mine 
Are  not  abashed  in  anywise, 
As  eyes  were  in  an  elder  syne. 
Perhaps  the  pulse  is  colder  now, 
And  blood  comes  tamer  to  the  brow 
Because  of  hot  blood  long  ago  .  .  . 
Withdraw  your  hand  ?  .  .  .  Well,  be  it  so, 
And  turn  your  bent  head  slow  side  wise, 
For  recollections  are  as  seas 
That  come  and  go  in  tides,  and  these 
Are  flood-tides  filling  to  the  eyes. 

"  How  strange  that  you  above  the  vale 
And  I  below  the  mountain  wall 
Should  walk  and  meet ! . . .  Why,  you  are  pale ! . . . 
Strange  meeting  on  the  mountain  fringe  !  .  .  . 
.  .  .  More  strange  we  ever  met  at  all !  .  .  . 
Tides  come  and  go,  we  know  their  time ; 
The  moon,  we  know  her  wane  or  prime : 
But  who  knows  how  the  fates  may  hinge  ? 

"•You  stand  before  me  here  to-night, 


288  EVEN  SO. 

But  not  beside  me,  not  beside  — 

Are  beautiful,  but  not  a  bride. 

Some  things  I  recollect  aright, 

Though  full  a  dozen  years  are  done 

Since  we  two  met  one  winter  night  — 

Since  I  was  crush'd  as  by  a  fall ; 

For  I  have  watched  and  pray'd  through  all 

The  shining  circles  of  the  sun. 


"  I  saw  you  where  sad  cedars  wave  ; 
I  sought  you  in  a  dewy  eve 
When  shining  crickets  trill  and  grieve : 
You  smiled,  and  I  became  a  slave. 
A  slave !  I  worshipped  you  at  night, 
When  all  the  blue  field  blossom'd  red 
With  dewy  roses  overhead 
In  sweet  and  delicate  delight. 
I  was  devout.     I  knelt  at  night, 
I  knelt  at  noon,  and  tried  to  pray 
To  Him  who  doeth  all  things  well. 
I  tried  in  vain  to  break  the  spell ; 
My  prison'd  soul  refused  to  rise 
And  image  saints  in  Paradise, 


EVEN  SO. 


While  one  was  here  before  my  eyes. 
You  came  between  alway,  alway. 


"  Some  things  are  sooner  marred  than  made. 
The  moon  was  white,  the  stars  a-chill  — 
A  frost  fell  on  a  soul  that  night, 
And  lips  were  whiter,  colder  still. 
A  soul  was  black  that  erst  was  white. 
And  you  forget  the  place  —  the  night ! 
Forget  that  aught  was  done  or  said  — 
Say  this  has  pass'd  a  long  decade  — 
Say  not  a  single  tear  was  shed  — 
Say  you  forget  these  little  things ! 
Is  not  your  recollection  loath? 
Well,  little  bees  have  bitter  stings, 
And  I  remember  for  us  both. 


"  No,  not  a  tear.    Do  men  complain  ? 
The  outer  wound  will  show  a  stain, 
And  we  may  shriek  at  idle  pain ; 
But  pierce  the  heart,  and  not  a  word, 
Or  wail,  or  sign,  is  seen  or  heard. 


29o  EVEN  SO. 

"  I  did  not  blame  —  I  do  not  blame. 
My  wild  heart  turns  to  you  the  same, 
Such  as  it  is ;  but  oh,  its  meed 
Of  faithfulness  and  trust  and  truth, 
And  gushing  confidence  of  youth, 
I  caution  you,  is  small  indeed. 

"  I  follow'd  you,  I  worshipped  you, 
And  I  would  follow,  worship  still ; 
But  if  I  felt  the  blight  and  chill 
Of  frosts  in  my  uncheerful  spring, 
And  show  it  now  in  riper  years 
In  answer  to  this  love  you  bring  — 
In  answer  to  this  second  love, 
This  wail  of  an  unmated  dove, 
In  cautious  answer  to  your  tears  — 
You,  you  know  who  taught  me  disdain. 
But  deem  you  I  would  deal  you  pain  ? 
I  joy  to  know  your  heart  is  light, 
I  journey  glad  to  know  it  thus, 
And  could  I  dare  to  make  it  less  ? 
Yours  —  you  are  day,  but  I  am  night. 

"  God  knows  I  would  descend  to-day 


EVEN  SO.  291 

Devoutly  on  my  knees,  and  pray 

Your  way  might  be  one  path  of  peace 

Through  bending  boughs  and  blossom'd  trees, 

And  perfect  bliss  through  roses  fair ; 

But  know  you,  back  —  one  long  decade  — 

How  fervently,  how  fond  I  pray'd  ?  — 

What  was  the  answer  to  that  prayer  ? 

0 

"  The  tale  is  old,  and  often  told 
And  lived  by  more  than  you  suppose  — 
The  fragrance  of  a  summer  rose 
Press'd  down  beneath  the  stubborn  lid, 
When  sun  and  song  are  hush'd  and  hid, 
And  summer  days  are  gray  and  old. 

"  We  parted  so.     Amid  the  bays 
And  peaceful  palms  and  song  and  shade 
Your  cheerful  feet  in  pleasure  stray'd 
Through  all  the  swift  and  shining  days. 

"  You  made  my  way  another  way, 
Fou  bade  it  should  not  be  with  thine  — 
A  fierce  and  cheerless  route  was  mine : 
But  we  have  met,  at  last,  to-day. 
19 


292  EVEN  SO. 

"You  talk  of  tears —  of  bitter  tears  — 
And  tell  of  tyranny  and  wrong, 
And  I  re-live  some  stinging  jeers, 
Back,  far  back,  in  the  leaden  years. 
A  lane  without  a  turn  is  long, 
I  muse,  and  whistle  a  reply  — 
Then  bite  my  lips  to  crush  a  sigh. 

"  You  sympathize  that  I  am  sad, 
I  sigh  for  you  that  you  complain, 
I  shake  my  yellow  hair  in  vain, 
I  laugh  with  lips,  but  am  not  glad. 

#  *  *  # 

..."  His  was  a  hot  love  of  the  hours, 
And  love  and  lover  both  are  flown, 
And  you  walk,  like  a  ghost,  alone. 
He  sipp'd  your  sunny  lips,  and  he 
Took  all  their  honey :  now  the  bee 
Bends  down  the  heads  of  other  flowers, 
And  other  lips  lift  up  to  kiss  ,  .  . 
...  I  am  not  cruel,  yet  I  iind 
A  savage  solace  for  the  mind 
And  sweet  delight  in  saying  this  .  .  . 


EVEN  SO.  293 

Now  you  are  silent,  white,  and  you 
Lift  up  your  hands  as  making  sign, 
And  your  rich  lips  lie  thin  and  blue 
And  ashen  .  .  .  and  you  writhe,  and  you 
Breathe  quick  and  tremble  ...  is  it  true 
The  soul  takes  wounds,  gives  blood  like  wine  ? 


..."  No,  not  so  lonely  now  —  I  love 
A  forest  maiden :  she  is  mine ; 
And  on  Sierras'  slopes  of  pine, 
The  vines  below,  the  snows  above, 
A  solitary  lodge  is  set 
Within  a  fringe  of  watered  firs ; 
And  there  my  wigwam  fires  burn, 
Fed  by  a  round  brown  patient  hand, 
That  small  brown  faithful  hand  of  hers 
That  never  rests  till  my  return. 
The  yellow  smoke  is  rising  yet ; 
Tiptoe,  and  see  it  where  you  stand 
Lift  like  a  column  from  the  land. 

*'  There  are  no  sea-gems  in  her  hair, 
No  jewels  fret  her  dimpled  hands, 
And  half  her  bronzen  limbs  are  bare : 


294  EVEN  SO. 

But  round  brown  arms  have  golden  bands, 

Broad,  rich,  and  by  her  cunning  hands 

Cut  from  the  yellow  virgin  ore, 

And  she  does  not  desire  more. 

I  wear  the  beaded  wampum  belt 

That  she  has  wove  —  the  sable  pelt 

That  she  has  fringed  red  threads  around ; 

And  in  the  morn,  when  men  are  not, 

I  wake  the  valley  with  the  shot 

That  brings  the  brown  deer  to  the  ground. 

And  she  beside  the  lodge  at  noon 

Sings  with  the  wind,  while  baby  swings 

In  sea-shell  cradle  by.  the  bough  — 

Sings  low,  so  like  the  clover  sings 

With  swarm  of  bees ;  I  hear  her  now, 

I  see  her  sad  face  through  the  moon  .  .  . 

Such  songs!  —  would  earth  had  more  of  such  ! 

She  has  not  much  to  say,  and  she 

Lifts  never  voice  to  question  me 

In  aught  I  do  ...  and  that  is  much. 

I  love  her  for  her  patient  trust, 

And  my  love's  fortyfold  return  — 

A  value  I  have  not  to  learn 

As  you  ...  at  least,  as  many  must  .  .  . 


EVEN  SO. 

..."  She  is  not  over  tall  or  fair ; 
Her  breasts  are  curtained  by  her  hair, 
And  sometimes,  through  the  silken  fringe, 
I  see  her  bosom's  wealth,  like  wine, 
Burst  through  in  luscious  ruddy  tinge  — 
And  all  its  wealth  and  worth  are  mine. 
I  know  not  that  one  drop  of  blood 
Of  prince  or  chief  is  in  her  veins : 
I  simply  say  that  she  is  good, 
And  loves  me  with  pure  womanhood. 
.  .  .  When  that  is  said,  why,  what  remains  V 

..."  You  seem  so  most  uncommon  tall 
Against  the  lonely  ghostly  moon, 
That  hurries  homeward  oversoon. 
And  hides  behind  you  and  the  pines ; 
And  your  two  hands  hang  cold  and  small, 
And  your  two  thin  arms  lie  like  vines, 
Or  winter  moonbeams  on  a  wall. 
.  .  .  What  if  you  be  a  weary  ghost, 
And  I  but  dream,  and  dream  I  wake  ? 
Then  wake  me  not,  and  my  mistake 
Is  not  so  bad :  let's  make  the  most 
Of  all  we  get,  asleep,  awake  — 


296  EVEN  SO. 

Take  all  we  get  with  greedy  cheek, 
And  waste  not  one  sweet  thing  at  all ; 
God  knows  that,  at  the  best,  life  brings 
The  soul's  share  so  exceeding  small 
That  many  mighty  souls  grow  weak 
And  weary  for  some  better  things, 
And  hungered  even  unto  death. 
Laugh  loud,  be  glad  with  ready  breath, 
For  after  all  are  joy  and  grief 
Not  merely  matters  of  belief  ? 
•And  what  is  certain,  after  all, 
But  death,  delightful,  patient  death  ? 
O  cool  and  perfect  peaceful  sleep, 
Without  one  tossing  hand,  or  deep 
Sad  sigh  and  catching  in  of  breath ! 

"  Be  satisfied.     The  price  of  breath 
Is  paid  in  toil.     But  knowledge  is 
Bought  only  with  a  weary  care, 
And  wisdom  means  a  world  of  pain  .  . 
Well,  we  have  suffered,  will  again, 
And  we  can  work  and  wait  and  bear, 
Strong  in  the  certainty  of  bliss. 
Death  is  delightful :  after  death 


EVEN  SO.  297 

Breaks  in  the  dawn  of  perfect  day. 
Let  question  he  who  will :  the  may 
Throws  fragrance  far  beyond  the  wall. 
I  pass  no  word  with  such :  'tis  fit 
To  pity  such :  therefore  I  say 
Be  wise  and  make  the  best  of  it ; 
Content  and  strong  against  the  fall. 

"  Death  is  delightful.    Death  is  dawn, 
The  waking  from  a  weary  night 
Of  fevers  unto  truth  and  light. 
Fame  is  not  much,  love  is  not  much, 
Yet  what  else  is  there  worth  the  touch 
Of  lifted  hands  with  dagger  drawn  ? 
So  surely  life  is  little  worth  : 
Therefore  I  say,  Look  up ;  therefore 
I  say,  One  little  star  has  more 
Bright  gold  than  all  the  earth  of  earth. 

"  Yet  we  must  labor,  plant  to  reap  — 
Life  knows  no  folding  up  of  hands  — 
Must  plough  the  soul,  as  ploughing  lands, 
In  furrows  fashioned  strong  and  deep. 
Life  has  its  lesson.     Let  us  learn 


298  EVEN  SO. 

The  hard  long  lesson  from  the  birth, 
And  be  content ;  stand  breast  to  breast, 
And  bear  and  battle  till  the  rest. 
Yet  I  look  to  yon  stars,  and  say, 
Thank  Christ,  ye  are  so  far  away 
That  when  I  win  you  I  can  turn 
And  look,  and  see  no  sign  of  earth. 


..."  You  stand  up  so  uncommon  tall, 
Your  back  against  the  falling  moon, 
And  all  your  limbs  are  still,  and  all 
Your  raiment  is  as  snow  and  stone. 
What  if  I  called  you  mine,  my  own  ? 
What  if  I  kissed  you,  mouth  to  mouth, 
In  all  the  passion  of  my  South, 
And  should  possess  you  oversoon  ? "  .  .  . 

He  reached  ...  he  touched  the  marble  stone 
He  started  up,  he  stood  alone, 
And  up  against  the  Grecian  sky 
White-marbled  desolation  stood. 
The  gaunt  wolf  hurried  to  the  wood, 
Within  the  wall,  the  owlet's  cry 


EVEN  SO.  299 


Was  only  heard ;  the  silent  blonde, 
The  brown  wife  with  her  babe  at  noon 
That  blessed  him  in  the  land  beyond, 
The  mountain  scene,  the  cedar  trees, 
The  stormy  and  uncertain  seas, 
And  all  that  he  did  see  or  seem 
To  see,  had  faded  as  a  dream, 
And  fallen  with  the  marble  moon. 


&»nri 


Cambridge ;  Stereotyped  and  Printed  by  John  Wilson  &  Son. 


14  DAY  USE 

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